THE  EDUCATION 
OF  ERIC  LANE 

>  ( 

STEPHEN   MCKENNA 


MRS.  W.  £.  HALSELL 

1601  W.  S7th  St. 
KANSAS  CITY,  MO. 


^ 


s 


THE    SENSATIONALISTS:     II 

THE   EDUCATION   OF 

ERIC   LANE 

STEPHEN     McKENNA 


By   STEPHEN    McKENNA 

THE  SENSATIONALISTS 

Part  One:    LADY  LILITH 
Part  Two:    THE  EDUCATION 
OF  ERIC  LANE 
Part  Three:    In  preparation 

SONIA  MARRIED 

SONIA 

MIDAS  AND  SON 

NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE 

THE  SIXTH  SENSE 

SHEILA  INTERVENES 

NEW    YORK 
GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


THE  EDUCATION  OF 
ERIC  LANE 

BY 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 

AUTHOR    OF    "lady     LILITH,"     "sONIA    MARRIED,'* 
"MIDAS  AND   SON,"   "sONIA,"   "NINETY- 

8IX  hours'  leave,"  etc. 


NEW  ^nSJT  YORK 
GEORGE   H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTKB  PAGIl 

I  An   Experiment  in   Emotion     .      .      .      .11 

II     Lady  Barbara  Neave 52 

III  Lashmar  Mill-House 88 

IV  Intermezzo :*      .      .  120 

V    Mortmain 149 

VI  Dame's  School  Education 184 

VII  Education  for  Those  of  Riper  Years    .      .  210 

VIII  The  Strongest  Thing  of  All    ....  237 

IX  The  Education  of  Barbara  Neave    .      .      .  260 


THE   EDUCATION   OF 
ERIC   LANE 


"Because  lust  was  not  good  enough,  the  Celt 
invented  romance." 

— Shane  Leslie  :  The  End  of  a  Chapter. 


THE   EDUCATION   OF 
ERIC  LANE 

CHAPTER  ONE 

AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION 

"...  A    genial  .  .  .  bachelor,    whom   the    outside    world    called 
selfish  because  it  derived  no  particular  benefit  from  him.  .  .  ." 
Oscar  Wilde:    "The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray." 


Eric  Lane,  visible  only  from  ear  to  chin  above  the  water- 
line,  peered  through  the  steam  of  the  bathroom  at  a 
travelling-clock  on  his  dressing-table.  The  bath  would 
have  been  improved  by  another  half  handful  of  verbena 
salts;  but,  even  lacking  this,  the  water  was  still  too  hot 
to  be  lightly  dismissed  with  an  aggrieved  gurgle  down  the 
waste-pipe.  It  was  an  added  self-indulgence  to  know  that, 
if  he  lay  gently  boiling  himself  for  more  than  another 
minute,  he  would  be  late  for  dinner  with  Lady  Poynter; 
but,  if  any  one  had  to  suffer,  let  it  be  Lady  Poynter.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  the  rehearsal  of  "The  Bomb-Shell" 
had  dragged  on  until  after  seven ;  something  had  to  be  sac- 
rificed— the  letters  which  his  secretary  had  left  for  him 
to  sign,  or  the  hot  bath,  or  the  cigarette  and  glass  of  sherry 
as  he  dressed,  or  (in  the  last  resort  and  quite  obviously) 
Lady  Poynter.  He  had  already  foregone  a  cocktail,  which 
would  have  made  him  two  minutes  later. 

iz 


12      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

As  the  water  began  to  cool,  Eric  threw  a  towel  over  his 
shoulders,  wiped  the  steam  from  the  face  of  the  clock  and 
began  to  dry  himself  slowly,  looking  round  with  ever-fresh 
dehght  at  the  calculated  ingenuity  of  comfort  in  his  new 
flat.  It  was  his  reward  for  the  successful  play.  For  ten 
years  after  coming  down  from  Oxford  he  had  lived  in  the 
Temple,  first  with  Jack  Waring  and  afterwards  by  himself ; 
lonely,  hard-working  years,  when  he  had  painfully  learned 
the  value  of  money  and  time.  With  one  play  running  inde- 
fatigably,  another  rehearsing  and  a  third  in  sight  of  com- 
pletion, he  had  decided  to  construct  a  frame  better  suited 
to  his  new  position.  Ten  years  ago  he  had  dreamed  at 
Oxford  of  a  day  when  he  would  burst  upon  London  as  a 
new  young  Byron;  and,  when  the  dream  was  almost  for- 
gotten, he  found  himself  living  in  its  midst.  He  was 
courted  and  quoted,  photographed  and  "paragraphed"; 
Lady  Poynter  and  the  rich,  malcontent  world  which 
aspired  to  intelligence  humbly  invited  him  to  dine,  and  it 
did  not  matter  whether  she  wanted  to  pay  him  homage  or 
to  exhibit  him  as  her  latest  celebrity.  It  was  time  to  leave 
the  Temple  and  to  burst,  fully  equipped,  upon  London.  A 
friend  in  the  artillery  made  over  the  remainder  of  his 
lease,  and  Eric  gave  himself  a  fortnight's  holiday  to  order 
the  furnishing  and  decoration  of  the  six  tiny  rooms.  When 
he  surveyed  telephone  and  dictaphone,  switches  and  presses, 
files  and  cases,  tables  and  lights,  he  felt  that  the  ease  and 
beauty  of  which  he  had  dreamed  were  dulled  and  stunted 
by  the  reality. 

Over  the  dressing-table  hung  a  framed  poster  of  his 
play:  "Regency  Theatre"  in  a  scroll  of  blue  lettering:  "A 
Divorce  Has  Been  Arranged"  under  it;  then  his  own  name; 
then  the  cast.  Eric  looked  affectionately  at  the  trophy,  as 
he  began  to  comb  his  dripping,  black  hair.  He  was  proud 
of  the  play  and  grateful  to  it ;  grateful  for  money,  reputa- 
tion and  the  added  importance  of  himself.    As  he  entered 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        13 

the  Carlton  that  day  one  unknown  woman  had  whispered 
to  another,  "Isn't  that  Eric  Lane  ?  I  thought  lie  was  older." 
He  was  boy  enough  to  be  gratified  that  seventeen  people 
had  stopped  him  that  morning  between  Grosvenor  Street 
and  Piccadilly.  Eight  months  ago  no  one  outside  Fleet 
Street  or  the  Thespian  Club  had  heard  of  him.  Jack 
Waring  and  O'Rane,  Loring  and  Deganway  always  seemed 
to  regard  him  as  a  harmless  eccentric  who  wrote  unaccept- 
able plays  for  his  own  amusement.  .  .  . 

The  hair-brushing  completed,  he  put  on  a  dressing-gown 
and  crossed  the  hall  to  his  smoking-room  for  the  sherry 
and  cigarette.  On  the  table  lay  a  pile  of  typewritten  let- 
ters, awaiting  his  signature,  and  another  pile  not  yet 
opened  and  secured  from  the  late  summer  breeze  by  a  glass 
paper-weight.  It  was  shaped  like  a  horse-shoe  and  had 
been  sent  him  on  his  first  night,  to  be  followed  by  a  tele- 
gram: "Best  wishes  for  all  possible  success  Agnes."  He 
had  kept  it  for  luck  and  in  gratitude  to  Agnes  Waring, 
who  had  been  a  sympathetic,  if  rather  undiscriminating, 
friend  for  many  years.  Until  eight  months  ago  he  had 
never  earned  enough  money  to  think  of  marrying;  and,  at 
thirty-two,  he  told  himself  that  he  was  not  a  marrying  man ; 
but  more  than  once  in  the  early  hours  of  triumph  he  had 
thought  of  Agnes  and  of  his  own  return  to  Lashmar;  they 
had  often  talked  jestingly  of  the  day  when  he  would  come 
back  famous,  and  behind  the  jest  lay  a  hint  of  romance  and 
sentiment  which  told  him  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  and 
believed  in  his  success  when  he  himself  doubted  it. 

Next  to  the  letters  lay  an  album  in  which  his  secretary 
had  at  last  finished  pasting  his  press-cuttings.  He  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  glance  at  two  or  three  of  his 
favourite  notices  before  opening  the  letters.  The  critics 
had  treated  him  kindly,  for  he  had  been  a  critic  himself 
and  had  not  scrupled  to  secure  a  good  press;  but  mere 
flattery  never  kept  a  bad  play  running.  .  .  .  He  decided 


14     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

that  he  was  going  to  enjoy  his  dinner  with  the  Poynters, 
though  the  chiming  of  the  clock  in  the  hall  warned  him 
that  he  could  not  hope  to  be  dressed  and  in  Belgrave  Square 
by  a  quarter  past  eight.  The  new  Byron  would  achieve  an 
effect,  if  he  gained  the  reputation  of  always  being  ten 
minutes  late  for  everything;  but  the  pose  offended  Eric's 
sense  of  tidiness.  Signing  his  letters,  he  ripped  open  half- 
a-dozen  envelopes  and  glanced  at  the  contents,  pushed  the 
news-cutting  album  neatly  into  its  shelf  and  hurried  into 
his  bedroom  with  a  glass  of  sherry  in  his  hand. 

It  was  time  to  order  a  taxi,  and  a  tall  Scotch  parlour- 
maid, of  whom  he  lived  in  secret  dread,  came  in  answer  to 
his  ring.  He  would  have  preferred  a  man,  but  men  were 
unprocurable  in  war-time.  He  let  fall  a  word  of  instruc- 
tion on  the  correct  way  of  laying  out  dress-clothes  and  was 
beginning  to  get  ready  in  earnest,  when  the  telephone-bell 
rang  simultaneously  in  bedroom,  bathroom,  dining-room 
and  smoking-room.  As  he  finished  his  sherry,  he  tried  to 
remember  where  he  had  left  the  instrument. 

"Hul-lo,"  he  cried,  exploring  to  see  whether  the  bath- 
room chair  was  dry. 

"That  you,  Ricky?  Sybil  speaking.  I  say,  are  you  com- 
ing down  on  Saturday?  You've  not  been  here  for  months, 
and  we  want  to  see  you." 

Eric  sighed  patiently  before  he  remembered  that  the 
sigh  was  unlikely  to  carry  as  far  as  Winchester.  The 
prophet  could  look  for  affection  in  his  own  country  and  in 
his  own  house ;  he  would  not  find  honour. 

"If  you  feel  I'm  essential  to  the  family  happiness "  he 

began. 

"You're  not.  But  we've  got  some  people  dining  on 
Saturday — Agnes  Waring  amongst  others.  You  can  bring 
your  work  with  you.  .  .  .  Say  you'll  come,  like  a  good  boy, 
and  don't  be  selfish." 

"Well,  I  might,"  Eric  answered.    "Good-bye,  Sybil." 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        15 

"You  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry!  What  are  you  doing 
to-night  r 

"I'm  being — extraordutarily — late  for  dinner  with  some 
people  I  don't  know,"  he  answered. 

His  sister's  voice  in  reply  was  slightly  aggrieved. 

"I  wouldn't  detain  you  for  worlds.  I  only  wanted  to 
know  if  you'd  seen  a  full-page  photograph  of  yourself " 

"In  the  'Gallery.'  Yes,  I  know  the  editor  and  I  got  him 
to  shove  it  in.  As  my  own  advertising  agent,  I  take  a  lot 
of  beating.     Good-bye,  Sybil." 

"Good-bye,  selfish  pig.  You're  being  spoilt  by  success, 
you  know." 

Eric  made  no  answer,  but,  as  he  snatched  up  his  hat  and 
cane,  still  more  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  taxi  with  his 
feet  on  the  opposite  seat,  he  reflected  with  philosophic  in- 
dulgence how  wide  of  the  mark  his  sister  had  fired.  He 
was  self-satisfied,  perhaps,  as  he  had  some  reason  to  be; 
self-suflficient,  assuredly,  as  he  had  set  out  to  become.  After 
all,  he  could  have  entered  the  Civil  Service  ten  years  before, 
as  his  father  had  wished;  and  there  would  have  been  ten 
years  of  material  comfort,  an  unchallengeable  social  posi- 
tion, a  wife,  a  home,  spiritual  paralysis  and  soul-destroying 
domestic  worries  as  his  portion.  Instead,  he  had  elected 
fo  make  his  own  way  in  a  hard  and  somewhat  despised 
school.  A  young  journalist  had  no  status.  People  invited 
him  to  their  houses,  because  he  had  been  at  the  same  college 
as  their  sons,  because  other  people  had  already  taken  the 
plunge ;  but  he  had  always  had  enough  detachment  to  recog- 
nize where  the  intimacy  was  to  stop. 

Now  he  was  being  accepted  at  his  own  valuation.  As  he 
passed  the  Ritz,  two  officers  and  a  girl  hailed  a  taxi  and 
told  the  driver  to  take  them  to  the  Regency.  At  eleven 
o'clock  they  would  be  saving:  "Good  show,  that."  (Had 
he  not  loitered  in  the  hall  of  the  theatre,  with  coat-collar 
turned  up,  to  hear  just  that?)     In  another  month  they 


1 6     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

would  be  going  to  "The  Bomb-Shell,"  because  it  was  by  the 
fellow  who  wrote  "A  Divorce  Has  Been  Arranged."  .  .  . 
He  had  money,  friends,  adulators  and  the  health  to  do  a 
full  day's  work.  In  speaking  to  Sybil,  he  had  only  hesi- 
tated because  he  was  not  sure  whether  he  wanted  to  meet 
Agnes  Waring  yet.  When  they  became  engaged.  .  .  .  If 
they  became  engaged,  he  would  lose  in  interest  with  the 
women  like  Lady  Poynter  who  were  always  inviting  him 
to  be  lionized.  .  .  . 

As  the  taxi  drew  up  in  Belgrave  Square,  he  looked  at 
his  watch.  Twenty-seven  minutes  past  eight.  He  handed 
his  hat  and  cane  to  a  footman  and  followed  the  butler  up- 
stairs with  complete  self-possession.  As  he  was  asked  his 
name  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  however,  he  stam- 
mered : 

"Mr.  Eric  L-lane." 

It  was  intolerable  that  he  could  not  overcome  that  stam- 
mer, so  entirely  alien  to  a  new  young  Byron.  .  .  . 


Lady  Poynter  had  finished  dressing  and  was  writing  in 
her  diary  when  her  maid  entered  to  ask  whether  Mrs. 
Shelley  might  come  in.  At  luncheon  the  Duchess  of  Ross 
had  complained  that  no  one  would  give  her  a  chance  of 
meeting  young  Eric  Lane;  Gerald  Deganway  had  mur- 
mured, "One  poor  martyr  without  a  lion";  and,  as 
Deganway  was  incapable  of  originating  anything.  Lady 
Poynter  felt  that  she  was  not  infringing  any  copyright  in 
recording  the  jest  against  that  day  when  Eleanor  Ross  tried 
to  steal  any  more  of  her  young  men  the  moment  she  had 
put  a  polish  on  them  and  made  them  known.  .  .  . 

"Angel  Marion!"  cried  Lady  Poynter,  throwing  down 
her  pen  so  that  it  described  an  inky  semi-circle.  "The  idea 
of  asking!" 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        17 

She  embraced  her  guest  as  effusively  as  she  had  addressed 
her.  Lady  Poynter  was  forty-eight  years  of  age,  daily  in- 
creasing in  bulk,  masculine  in  voice,  intellectual  through 
vanity  and  childless  by  preference.  Her  husband  was  rich, 
patient,  stupid  and  self-indulgent,  bearing  with  her  literary 
passions  and  in  self-defence  displaying  that  care  for  house- 
hold comfort  which  it  was  Lady  Foynter's  pride  to  neglect. 
Why,  she  asked,  were  men  given  brains  if  they  made  gods 
of  their  bellies?  Mrs.  Shelley  was  the  widow  of  a  well- 
known  free-lance  journalist,  who  in  his  day  had  brought 
her  into  contact  with  a  sufficient  number  of  authors  for 
her  to  imitate  on  austerely  simple  lines  the  symposia  of  wit 
and  learning  which  Lady  Poynter  assembled  on  the  strength 
of  her  own  personality  and  her  husband's  cellar.  There 
was  a  long-standing  gentle  competition  between  the  two, 
which  they  abandoned  in  common  hostility  to  Lady  Mait- 
land,  who  excelled  them  both  in  the  ruthlessness  and  speed 
of  her  hunting.  At  the  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Shelley  had 
eclipsed  both  her  rivals  by  the  chance  of  having  known  Eric 
Lane  for  ten  years;  to  Lady  Maitland  he  was  still  "Mr. 
Eric,"  to  Lady  Poynter  "Mr.  Lane." 

"You  don't  mind  my  coming  like  this,  do  you  ?"  she  asked 
timidly,  disengaging  herself  from  Lady  Poynter's  embrace 
and  indicating  her  commandant's  uniform.  "I  was  at  the 
hospital  until  eight." 

"As  if  I  minded  what  you  wore !"  her  hostess  cried.  "In 
war-time,  when  we  haven't  a  moment  to  turn  round  .  .  .  ! 
And  it  isn't  as  if  this  were  a  party." 

Mrs.  Shelley  walked  to  a  mirror  and  looked  thoughtfully 
at  her  unassertive  reflection.  Her  hair  was  a  dusty  brown, 
her  eyes  an  unsoftening  grey,  and  her  cheeks,  which  were 
careworn  with  exacting,  humble  ambition,  acted  at  once  as 
frame  and  background  for  a  thin  nose  and  unrelaxing 
mouth. 

"You  always  say  that,  darling,"  she  protested  gently, 


i8      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

leaning  forward  to  the  mirror  and  dabbing  at  herself  with 
a  powder-puff.    "xA.nd  it  means  the  most  delightful " 

"I've  got  Eric  Lane  coming,"  interrupted  Lady  Poynter, 
groping  for  a  crumpled  half-sheet  of  paper  marked  as  with 
the  sweeping  strokes  of  a  hay-rake  in  soft  mud.  "Who 
else?  Sonia  O'Rane  you  know;  Max — or  did  Max  say  he 
was  dining  at  his  club?  It  doesn't  matter,  because  I  can't 
pretend  that  Max  contributes  much,  even  though  he  is  my 
husband;  then  there's  my  nephew,  Johnnie  Gaymer;  and 
Babs  Neave " 

"Dear  Babs,"  murmured  !Mrs.  Slielley  with  conscientious 
enthusiasm.  It  was  her  favourite  boast  that  she  sincerely 
tried  to  make  allowances  for  all  and  permitted  ill-speaking 
of  none.  In  the  years  before  the  war,  when  Lady  Barbara's 
friends  were  wondering  whether  they  really  could  continue 
to  know  her,  Mrs.  Shelley  remained  embarrassingly  loyal. 
■"I  haven't  seen  her  for  months." 

"She's  been  nursing  at  Crawleigh  all  this  time,  simply 
wearing  herself  out.  I've  never  seen  any  one  so  changed. 
We  met  in  Bond  Street  this  morning;  I  hadn't  meant  to 
invite  her,  but  I  felt  I  must  do  something.  .  .  ."  Lady 
Poynter  projected  herself  from  the  sofa  and  rustled  to  the 
door,  murmuring :  "I  must  find  out  whether  Max  is  dining 
at  home  to-night." 

Mrs.  Shelley  made  her  way  downstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room  and  stood  on  the  balcony  outside  one  of  the  French 
windows,  looking  down  through  the  warm  dusk  on  Belgrave 
Square.  An  open  taxi  drew  up  at  the  door,  and  she 
watched  Mrs.  O'Rane  descending  daintily  and  smiling  at 
the  driver;  a  second  taxi  drove  from  the  opposite  corner 
of  the  square,  and  Captain  Gaymer,  in  Flying  Corps  uni- 
form, jumped  out  and  hurried  to  the  door,  looking  appre- 
hensively at  his  watch.  Mrs.  Shelley  left  the  balcony  and 
shook  hands  with  Lord  Poynter  who  was  dutifully  dressed 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        19 

in  time  to  receive  any  guests  who  might  arrive  before  his 
wife  appeared. 

"Two.  Four,"  he  counted  timidly.  "Babs  Neave  is  sure 
to  be  late.  That  leaves  only  Lane.  Does  every  one  know 
him?" 

An  indistinct  murmur  was  drowned  by  Gaymer,  who 
knitted  his  brows  and  repeated : 

"Lane?  Eric  Lane?  The  dramatist  fellow?  I  saw 
something  about  him  in  one  of  the  picture-papers  to-day, 
when  I  was  having  my  hair  cut.  Oh,  I  know !  He'd  left 
London,  and  letters  weren't  going  to  be  forwarded.  Didn't 
he  tell  you  ?"  he  asked  as  his  aunt  crossed  the  room  in  con- 
cern. 

Lady  Poynter's  jaw  fell  in  affronted  indignation.  Lady 
Maitland  had  already  secured  Mr.  Lane  for  luncheon,  the 
Duchess  of  Ross  had  wired:  "Don't  know  you  but  must 
Have  just  seen  your  play.  When  will  you  dine?"  and  Mrs. 
Shelley  had  staked  out  a  claim  before  any  one  else  had 
heard  of  the  man. 

"That  is  really  too  abominable,"  she  cried.  "He  made 
a  note  of  the  time  in  his  book  .  .  .  only  two  days  ago.  .  .  . 
And  then  he  hasn't  the  consideration  even  to  telephone." 

She  counted  the  numbers  and  turned  angrily,  as  the  door 
was  thrown  open.  After  pausing  on  the  threshold  to  see 
who  was  present.  Lady  Barbara  Neave  entered  the  room 
falteringly  and  with  a  suggestion  that  she  was  belatedly 
repenting  a  too  venturesome  effect  in  dress.  The  men,  she 
knew,  were  only  watching  her  eyes  and  waiting  for  the 
surprised  smile  of  recognition  which  always  made  them  feel 
that  they  had  been  missed ;  but  Mrs.  Shelley,  she  would 
wager,  was  privately  noting  that  a  dove-coloured  silk  dress 
and  a  scarlet  shawl  embroidered  with  birds  in  flight  made 
a  white  face  look  ashen ;  Sonia  O'Rane  was  probably  won- 
dering why  her  maid  did  not  tell  her  that  a  band  of  black 
tulle  with  a  red  rose  at  one  side  simply  emphasized  her 


20     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

hollow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes.  .  .  .  She  moved  listlessly 
and  smiled  mysteriously  to  herself  as  though  unconscious 
that  every  one  was  silent  and  watchful;  then  the  surprised 
smile  transfigured  her,  she  kissed  the  other  women  with 
childlike  abandon,  leaving  the  men  to  watch  and  envy. 

"Babs,  darling,  it  is  sweet  of  you  to  come.  I've  no  party 
for  you,"  said  Lady  Poynter,  forgiving  the  girl's  lateness 
and  forgetting  her  own  discomfiture. 

Barbara  shook  her  head  and  looked  round  the  room  with 
eyes  which  had  lost  their  momentary  colour,  as  though  the 
light  behind  them  had  been  doused. 

"I've  forgotten  what  it's  like  to  meet  people  and  try  to 
talk  intelligently,"  she  laughed  with  the  mirthlessness  of 
physical  exhaustion.  "Well,  Max !  And  Johnnie !  I'm 
sorry  to  be  late,  Margaret,  but  until  the  last  moment  I 
didn't  know  that  I  should  feel  up  to  coming." 

"If  you'd  thrown  me  over,  too "  began  Lady  Poyn- 
ter. "Give  us  some  light.  Max.  My  dear,  you're  losing  all 
your  looks,  and  that  black  thing  gives  you  a  face  like  a 
sheet  of  mourning  note-paper.  You  must  take  proper  care 
of  yourself.     And  you're  nothing  but  skin  and  bones." 

Barbara  smiled  again,  as  listlessly  as  before. 

"Yes.  My  maid  has  given  notice;  I  don't  do  her 
credit.  .  .  .  But  I'm  a  dull  subject  of  conversation.  How's 
dear  Marion  been  all  this  time?" 

She  broke  up  the  group  by  drawing  Mrs.  Shelley  to  a 
sofa  with  her  and  again  looked  cautiously  round  the  room. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  dined  out  since  her 
illness,  almost  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the  war ; 
and  the  light  and  noise,  magnified  by  fancy  and  sensitive 
nerves,  made  her  dizzy.  Her  mother  and  the  doctor  had 
tried  to  keep  her  at  home;  but  natural  obstinacy  and  uncon- 
trollable whim  had  been  too  much  for  them.  A  few  weeks 
ago  she  had  fainted  in  the  train,  as  she  returned  to  London 
from  Crawleigh  Abbey;  an  unknown  man  had  taken  care 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        21 

of  her,  but,  though  she  remembered  his  voice,  she  was  too 
giddy  to  see  or  recall  his  face.  On  arriving  at  her  father's 
house  in  Berkeley  Square,  she  found  her  fingers  grasping 
a  silver  flask  with  a  monogram  "E.  L." ;  and  that  morning, 
when  Lady  Poynter  invited  her  to  dinner,  she  had  divined 
that  "E.  L."  must  stand  for  Eric  Lane.  The  coincidence 
would  not  have  been  worth  following  by  itself,  but  in  the 
latter  days  of  her  illness  she  had  repeatedly  dreamed  of  a 
child  with  the  stranger's  voice ;  and,  vaguely  and  shame- 
facedly, Barbara  believed  that  dreams  had  an  influence  on 
life  and  were  glimpses  beyond  the  veil  of  the  unknown. 
She  was  coming  to  believe,  too,  in  predestination  as  the  one 
cause  able  to  explain  a  long  series  of  isolated  acts  for 
which  she  could  not  hold  herself  responsible;  and  to-night 
predestination  would  be  put  to  the  test,  for  half-a-dozen 
people  had  already  invited  her  to  meet  Eric  Lane  and  for 
one  reason  or  another  she  had  never  been  able  to  accept. 
It  was  the  thought  that  she  might  be  meeting  him  at  last 
which  had  so  taken  away  her  composure  that  she  had  hardly 
been  able  to  cross  the  room. 

'7  don't  think  it's  worth  waiting,"  muttered  Lady  Poyn- 
ter, her  indignation  returning  reinforced  by  hunger.  "You 
might  ring  the  bell.  Max,  and  find  whether  any  telephone 
message  has  been  received " 

"It's  Eric  Lane,"  Mrs.  Shelley  explained.  "Captain 
Gaymer  was  saying  that  he'd  left  London." 

"Oh !    I'm  sorry.    I've  never  met  him,"  said  Barbara. 

Evidently  she  was  predestined  never  to  meet  him;  and 
the  noise  and  light  made  her  too  giddy  to  decide  whether 
she  was  relieved  or  disappointed.  Predestination  was  win- 
ning another  round ;  and,  while  she  was  ill  and  unresisting, 
it  was  comforting  to  feel  that  she  was  not  responsible  for 
all  the  follies  and  the  one  crime  which  had  ruined  her  life ; 
but  it  was  sad  to  feel  that  she  would  never  meet  the  hero 
of  her  dream- romance.    He  might  have  filled  the  whole  of 


22      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

a  life  that  for  a  year  had  been  empty  and  aching;  at  the 
lowest  computation,  their  meeting  would  have  been  an  ex- 
periment in  emotion.  .  .  . 

Lord  Poynter  had  shambled  flat-footedly  half-way  to  the 
bell,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  again  and  the  butler 
announced  "Mr.  Eric  Lane."  There  was  a  tiny  stir  of 
interest  among  those  who  had  not  met  him  and  of  surprise 
among  all.  Eric's  eyes  narrowed  for  a  moment  under  the 
light  of  the  chandelier;  then  he  collected  himself,  swiftly 
identified  Lady  Poynter  and  shook  her  hand  with  a  mur- 
mur of  apology  for  his  lateness. 

"But,  dear  man,  we'd  given  you  up!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why  did  you  frighten  us  by  announcing  in  the  papers  that 
you'd  left  London  ?    You've  not  met  Max,  have  you  ?" 

Eric  shook  hands  with  Lord  Poynter. 

"That  was  my  s-secretary,"  he  explained.  Shyness  was 
rushing  in  waves  to  his  head,  and  he  could  only  save  him- 
self from  disgrace  by  pretending  to  be  more  icily  collected 
than  any  one  in  the  room.  "I'm  f-frightfully  overworked 
at  present  with  rehearsals  and  things,  so  I  applied  for  a 
f-fortnight's  leave  from  my  department  and  everybody 
thinks  I'm  f-fishing  in  Scotland  or  doing  a  walking  tour  on 
Dartmoor.  This  party  is  my  f-final  dissipation.  Lady 
Poynter." 

He  looked  round  to  see  with  whom  he  had  still  to  shake 
hands.  As  he  began  to  speak,  Barbara  had  shivered  so 
violently  that  Mrs.  Shelley  turned  at  the  movement;  then 
she  tried  to  remember  even  seeing  his  face  as  he  bent  over 
her  in  the  train  and  carried  her  along  the  platform  at 
Waterloo.  She  was  paralyzed  with  dread  of  the  moment 
when  he  would  recognize  her,  for  she  had  nothing  adequate 
to  the  drama  of  their  meeting.  .  .  .  He  shook  hands  first 
with  those  nearest  to  him,  and  she  hastened  to  make  a 
mental  picture  before  he  saw  that  she  was  watching  him; 
black  hair,  a  thin  face  restless  with  vitality,  bloodless  lips 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        23 

tightly  shut  and  eyes  that  were  out  of  keeping  with  the 
assurance  of  the  face — eyes  unexpectedly  big  and  soft, 
deep  in  colour  and  timid  in  expression,  reminding  her  of 
the  stammer  and  quick  eagerness  of  his  speech. 

He  was  shaking  hands  now  with  Mrs.  Shelley,  and  Bar- 
bara grew  rigid  with  fear.  His  face  turned,  and  their  eyes 
met;  but  he  passed  on  to  Gaymer  without  recognizing  her. 
She  found  herself  trembling  with  relief;  and  the  reaction 
swept  away  disappointment  and  all  interest  but  dislike. 
Voice  and  eyes,  movements  and  manner  became  hateful  to 
her;  she  longed  for  an  opportunity  of  upsetting  his  pre- 
carious composure,  of  pricking  his  conceit  and  hurting  him. 
If  Margaret  Poynter  did  not  put  her  next  to  him,  she  would 
walk  out  of  the  room  and  go  home.  .  .  . 

The  butler  entered  to  announce  that  dinner  was  served, 
and  Lady  Poynter,  with  an  unconcentrated  "Babs,  you 
haven't  met  Mr.  Lane,  have  vou?"  tried  to  remember  her 
ordering  of  the  table. 

"Tell  me  who  'Babs'  is,"  Eric  begged  in  an  undertone, 
as  he  and  Gaymer  prepared  to  follow  the  others  down  to 
the  dining-room. 

"Babs  Neave?  Don't  you  know  her?"  Gaymer  asked  in 
surprise. 

"Oh,  by  name,  of  course.     I  didn't  recognize  her.'* 

"She's  been  rather  ill,  I  think." 

As  he  pulled  his  napkin  out  of  its  folds,  Eric  stole  a 
glance  at  Barbara.  By  sight  he  had  known  her  distantly 
for  years  as  a  girl  who  hardly  missed  a  first  night  or  pri- 
vate view ;  she  was  always  to  be  found  acting,  reciting  or 
at  least  selling  programmes  at  charity  matinees;  he  had  seen 
her  at  Stage  Society  performances,  and  the  illustrated 
papers  gave  her  a  full-page  photograph  after  any  of  the 
big  costume  balls.  And,  like  most  of  his  generation,  he 
knew  her  by  reputation  better  than  by  sight;  for  half-a- 
dozen  years  her  epigrams  and  escapades  had  been  on  every 


24     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

one's  lips ;  while  he  was  still  at  Oxford  and  she  a  child  of 
twelve,  her  cousin  Lord  Loring  had  wondered  despairingly 
what  was  to  be  done  with  her.  On  the  disclosure  of  her 
name,  Eric  had  expected  to  see  some  one  flamboyant  and 
assertive.  He  was  relieved  to  find  her  quiet  and  reserved, 
a  little  hostile,  perhaps  bored  and  certainly  ill. 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  you've  not  been  well,"  he  began 
timidly.  Her  expression  and  the  angle  at  which  she  was 
seated  convinced  him  that  he  had  left  an  unfavourable  im- 
pression on  her,  and  he  half  feared  a  rebuff.  "I  suppose, 
like  every  one  else,  you've  been  overworking?" 


"You'll  find  me  thoroughly  dull,"  Barbara  announced 
abruptly,  with  the  candour  of  one  who  studies  her  effects 
and  with  a  brusqueness  which  discouraged  further  ad- 
vances. "The  doctor  says — oh,  Mrs.  O'Rane's  trying  to 
attract  your  attention." 

Eric  felt  himself  dismissed  and,  submitting  to  her  hint, 
looked  over  the  malachite  bowls  of  white  roses  to  the  place 
where  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  leaning  forward  with  one  elbow 
on  the  table  and  her  other  hand  repressing  Gaymer.  The 
cast  of  the  "Divorce"  was  being  slightly  changed,  and  they 
had  thought  it  worth  while  to  venture  a  sovereign  on  the 
name  of  one  nonentity  who  was  retiring  in  favour  of 
another.  Eric  adjudicated  in  Gaymer's  favour  and  was 
turning  to  give  Barbara  a  last  chance,  when  he  found  that 
the  flood-gates  were  open  and  that  every  one,  taking  his 
time  from  Lady  Poynter,  was  prepared  to  discuss  dramatic 
art  in  general  and,  in  particular,  the  construction  and  his- 
tory of  his  play.  Their  enquiries  were  simple-minded ;  bom- 
barded from  four  different  quarters  at  once,  he  took  the 
questions  at  the  volley;  then,  as  they  seemed  interested,  he 
became  more  expansive,  losing  his  stammer  and  straying 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       25 

unconsciously  into  an  unrehearsed  lecture.  There  were 
occasional  objections  and  challenges;  but  Lady  Poynter 
silenced  them  ruthlessly  with  a  "Now,  my  dear,  you  mustn't 
interrupt  when  Mr.  Lane's  explaining  the  whole  basis  of  his 
art,"  and  he  discovered  suddenly  that  he  was  talking  well. 

"I  expect  you're  tired  of  hearing  it,  but  I  loved  that  play 
of  yours,"  said  his  hostess  with  a  beaming  glance  which 
confidently  asked  her  other  guests  whether  she  was  not 
well  justified  in  summoning  them  to  meet  him.  "I've  been 
to  see  it  three  times." 

"I've  been  twice,  and  some  one's  taking  me  to  it  again 
to-morrow,"  continued  Mrs.  O'Rane,  for  whom  no  subject 
of  conversation  was  complete  until  she  had  decorated  it 
with  a  personal  touch. 

"Even  I've  been  once,"  murmured  Barbara,  rousing  re- 
luctantly from  the  silence  which  she  had  maintained  since 
the  beginning  of  dinner.  "George  Oakleigh  insisted  on 
taking  me.  It  seems  to  be  having  a  great  success,  Mr. 
Lane." 

Eric  smiled  a  little  self-consciously;  but  her  deliberate 
avoidance  of  enthusiasm  chilled  him  after  Lady  Foynter's 
extravagant  appreciation. 

"No  one  here  seems  to  have  escaped  it,"  he  said. 

"I  kept  thinking  how  clever  of  you  it  was  to  write  it," 
she  went  on,  half  to  herself. 

Such  criticism  led  to  nothing  but  a  second  self-conscious 
smile ;  and,  knowing  her  reputation,  he  had  expected  some- 
thing more  stimulating. 

"Was  it  a  good  house?"  he  asked. 

"Very  full,  if  that's  what  you  mean."  She  looked  past 
him  and  lowered  her  voice.  "It  was  full  of  Lady  Poyn- 
ters,"  she  went  on.  "Rows  and  rows  of  them.  They  took 
it  conscientiously,  they  laughed  at  the  jokes,  they  missed 
nothing,  even  the  obvious  things ;  and,  if  I  went  next  week, 
I  should  find  them  all  there  again — or  other  people  exactly 


26     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

like  them.  It  was  a  wonderful — "  she  hesitated  and 
looked  at  him  long  enough  to  see  that  he  was  perplexed,  if 
not  annoyed — "experience." 

"I  hope  you  don't  regret  going?" 

"Very  few  plays  are  as  amusing  as  the  audience,"  she 
answered  thoughtfully.  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for 
anything.  I  wondered  what  you  were  like.  .  .  ."  She 
turned  to  look  at  him  with  leisurely  and  unsmiling  interest. 
"I  expected  to  find  you  much  younger.  How  old  are  you? 
Twenty-six?  Thirty-two!  You're  ten  years  older  than 
I  am !  What  in  the  world  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self?" 

"That  would  take  rather  a  long  time  to  tell !"  he  laughed. 

"I  don't  expect  it  would.  Life  is  not  measured  by  days, 
but  by  sensations.  .  .  ." 

"Those  you  experience  or  those  you  create?"  Eric  inter- 
rupted. 

Barbara  turned  away  and  nodded  to  herself. 

"It's  like  that,  is  it?"  she  murmured.  "Are  you  declar- 
ing war?  If  so,  you're  clever  enough  to  fight  with  your 
own  weapons  instead  of  picking  up  the  rusty  swords  of  men 
I've  already  beaten.  You  knew  little  Val  Arden,  of  course? 
And  my  cousin  Jim  Loring?  They  taught  you  to  call  me  a 
'sensationalist.'  Labels  are  an  indolent  man's  device  for 
guessing  what's  inside  a  bottle  without  tasting." 

"They  sometimes  prevent  accidental  poisoning." 

"If  the  right  labels  are  on  the  right  bottles.  That's  what 
I  have  to  find  out.  And  it's  worth  an  occasional  risk.  .  .  . 
Sensationalist !  I  collect  new  emotions,  but  you  must  be 
bourgeois  yourself  if  you  want  to  epater  le  bourgeois. 
Now,  you  can't  have  had  many  emotions,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  written  that  play.  And  yet — what  were  you  doing 
before?"  she  demanded  abruptly. 

"I  followed  the  despised  calling  of  a  journalist.'* 

"Ah !" 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        27 

She  nodded  and  began  eating  her  quail  without  explain- 
ing herself  further.  Eric  was  nettled  by  her  tone,  for  she 
was  taking  pains  to  let  him  see  that  she  had  not  liked  his 
play,  perhaps  even  that  she  despised  him  for  writing  it. 
He  half  turned  to  Lady  Poynter,  but  she  was  deep  in  con- 
versation with  her  nephew.  For  a  time  he,  too,  concen- 
trated his  attention  on  the  quail;  but  every  one  else  was 
talking,  and,  though  Barbara's  challenge  was  too  pert  to  be 
taken  seriously,  he  felt  that  half-praise  from  her  was  more 
valuable  than  the  adulation  of  women  like  Mrs.  Shelley 
who  were  content  to  worship  success  for  its  own  sake. 

"What  was  the  precise  meaning  of  the  'Ah!'?"  he  en- 
quired lazily. 

"  'Meaning' ;  not  'precise  meaning.'  You  surely  don't 
want  me  to  see  that  you're  rather  losing  your  temper  and 
trying  to  cover  it  up  by  being  dignified.  You've  been  so 
careful  with  your  effects,  too!  ...  I  said  'Ah,'  because 
you'd  given  me  the  clue  I  was  looking  for.  You  were  a 
very  clever  journalist,  I  should  think." 

"Isn't  that  rash  on  half  an  hour's  acquaintance?" 

"You're  forgetting  your  play — for  the  first  time  since  it 
was  produced !  I  felt  that,  however  bad  it  was  as  a  play, 
it  was  first-rate  journalism.  I've  told  you  that  I  kept  think- 
ing how  clever  of  you  it  was  to  write  it.  You  mustn't 
think  I  didn't  enjoy  myself.  The  construction's  quite  toler- 
able, and  the  dialogue's  admirable — not  a  word  too  much, 
not  a  syllable  put  in  for  'cleverness,'  no  epigrams  for  epi- 
grams' sake.    And  you've  got  a  good  sense  of  the  theatre." 

"I  was  a  dramatic  critic  for  some  years.  Hence  my  good 
press." 

'Ah !  Well,  I  felt  that  night  that,  if  you  weren't  too  old 
and  set,  you  might  live  to  write  a  really  good  play."  He 
bowed  slightly.  "Have  you  a  cigarette?  I  hate  people 
smoking  in  the  middle  of  meals ;  but  Margaret's  begun,  and 
I  must  have  something  to  drown  it.    Now  that,  I  suppose. 


28      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

would  be  called  an  ironical  bow,  wouldn't  it?  I  mean,  in 
your  stage  directions?  You  must  guard  against  that  kind 
of  thing,  you  know." 

"I  will  endeavour  to  do  so,  Lady  Barbara." 

"  'Try,'  not  'endeavour.'  And  you  mustn't  talk  like  your 
own  characters;  you've  no  idea  how  debilitating  that  is. 
It's  bad  enough  when  you  try  to  drag  us  into  the  world  of 
your  plays,  but  it's  intolerable  if  you  try  to  drag  your 
plays  into  our  world.  Did  you  ever  read  a  story  about  a 
boy  who  lost  all  sense  of  reality  by  going  to  the  theatre 
too  much?  He  became  dramatic.  He  slapped  his  fore- 
head and  groaned Well,  we  don't  slap  our  foreheads 

or  groan,  however  great  the  provocation.  And  in  moments 
of  stress  he  would  shake  hands  with  people  and  turn  away 
to  hide  his  emotion.  And  it  wasn't  only  in  gestures,  he 
became  dramatic  in  conduct.  When  compromising  letters 
came  into  his  hands,  he  used  to  bum  them  unread  and 
without  any  one  looking  on,  which  is  manifestly  absurd.  I 
forget  what  happened  to  him  in  the  end,  but  I  expect  he 
was  charged  with  something  he  hadn't  done  to  save  the 
husband  of  the  woman  he  wanted  to  marry — and  whom 
he'd  have  made  perfectly  miserable,  if  she  hadn't  taken 
him  in  hand  very  firmly  at  the  outset.  And  he'd  have 
insisted  on  having  all  their  quarrels  in  her  bedroom." 

Barbara  seemed  to  have  talked  away  her  listlessness. 
The  champagne  had  brought  colour  into  her  cheeks  and 
eyes.  Eric  looked  at  her  with  new  interest,  waiting  for 
the  next  abrupt  change. 

"I'm  not  finding  you  as  thoroughly  dull  as  you  warned  me 
to  expect,"  he  observed,  borrowing  her  candour  of  speech. 

"I  should  think  not!  I'm  never  dull  when  it's  worth 
while  taking  any  trouble.  I  didn't  think  you  were  worth 
while,  till  you  began  talking.  Then  I  saw  that  in  spite  of 
the  play " 

"I  didn't  think  I  should  be  spared  that,"  he  murmured. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       29 


"And  the  poses " 

"Poses?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,  you've  postured  and  advertised  your- 
self till  every  one's  sick  of  you!  A  good  press — I  should 
think  you  had !  You're  never«out  of  it !  An  announcement 
that  you've  left  London — and  the  intolerable  effrontery  of 
telling  us  all  about  it !  The  only  way  you  could  escape  from 
your  mob  of  adorers." 

"I  don't  think  I  used  the  word  'adorers' ;  and  I've  got  to 
find  time  somehow  to  rehearse  my  new  play." 

His  voice  had  grown  a  little  stiff.  Barbara  smiled  to 
herself  and  discovered  suddenly  that  the  desire  to  hurt  him 
was  dead. 

"When's  the  new  play  coming  out  ?"  she  asked. 

"In  the  middle  of  next  month." 

"You  can't  make  it  later?" 

"Are  you  afraid  you  won't  be  able  to  attend  the  first 
night?"  he  laughed. 

"God  forbid!  But  I  shan't  have  time  to  complete  your 
education  in  a  month.  Now,  I'm  talking  seriously.  Put 
that  play  off !  You're  only  a  child,  you've  made  a  mint  of 
money  out  of  this  present  abomination.  If  you'll  wait  till 
I've  educated  you " 

Her  pupils  had  dilated  until  the  irises  were  swamped  in 
black.  The  early  warm  flush  had  shrunk  and  intensified 
into  two  vivid  splashes  of  colour  over  her  cheek-bones. 
Neurotic,  Eric  decided ;  but  arresting  and  magnetic. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  teach  me  ?"  he  enquired. 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  conscious  of  a  lull  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Without  looking  round,  he  knew  that  every  one  was 
watching  them  and  that  both  their  voices  had  risen  a  tone. 

"Life !"  she  cried.  "You've  never  iitet  men  and  women. 
I  told  George  Oakleigh  so  that  night.  That's  why  the  public 
loves  your  play." 


30     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Eric  turned  to  Lady  Poynter. 

"I  have  a  new  play  coming  out  next  month,"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  Lady  Barbara  wants  me  to  hang  it  Up  till 
she's  taught  me — did  you  say  'Hfe'?" 

"Yes !  Margaret,  darling,  any  young  man  may  write  one 
successful  bad  play " 

There  was  a  gasp  of  orotund  protest  from  Lady  Po)mter. 

"My  dear  Babs !" 

"Of  course  it's  a  bad  play!  What  I  don't  know  about 
bad  plays  isn't  worth  knowing,  I've  seen  so  many  of  them ! 
Have  you  ever  met  a  woman,  Mr.  Lane?  Have  you  ever 
even  fancied  that  you  were  in  love?" 

Eric  took  a  cigarette  and  lighted  one  for  Barbara. 

"I  thought  I  knew  a  lot  about  life  when  I  was  twenty- 
two,"  he  said,  studiedly  reflective.  "I'd  just  come  down 
from  Oxford." 

Her  attention  seemed  to  have  wandered  to  her  cigarette, 
for  she  drew  hard  at  it  and  then  asked  for  another  match. 

"Which  was  your  college?"  she  enquired  with  neurotic 
suddenness  of  transition. 

"Trinity." 

"Did  you  know  my  brother?  He  must  have  been  up 
about  your  time.    He  was  at  the  House." 

"I  knew  him  by  sight.  Tall,  fair-haired  man;  he  was 
on  the  Bullingdon.  I  never  met  him,  though.  I  didn't 
know  many  men  at  the  House." 

Barbara  thought  for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  believe  I  know  any  one  who  was  at  Trinity  in 
your  time.    Did  you  ever  meet  a  man  called  Waring?" 

"Jack  Waring  of  New  College?  I've  known  him  all  my 
life.  They're  neighbours  of  ours  in  Hampshire.  You 
know  he's  missing?" 

Barbara  nodded  quickly. 

"So  I  heard.  ...  I  suppose  nothing  definite's  known?" 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       31 

"I  haven't  met  any  of  the  family  since  the  news  was  pub- 
lished, but  I  shall  see  his  sister  this  week-end." 

"Well,  if  you  can  find  out  anything  without  too  much 
bother " 

"Oh,  she's  a  great  friend  of  mine,"  Eric  explained.  "It's 
no  trouble." 

Barbara  turned  to  him  with  a  rapid  backward  cast  to 
her  earlier  quest. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  her?  Oh,  but  why  not?"  she  de- 
manded querulously.  "It  would  do  you  so  much  good — as 
a  man  and  as  a  writer.  You'll  never  get  rid  of  your  self- 
satisfaction  till  then;  and  you'll  never  write  a  good  play. 
It's  such  a  pity,  when  you've  everything  except  the  psy- 
chology. Why  don't  you  fall  in  love  with  me?  I  could 
teach  you  such  a  lot,  and  you'd  never  regret  it."  Barbara 
caught  her  hostess'  eye  and  picked  up  her  gloves.  "You'd 
write  a  tolerable  play  in  the  middle  of  it,  a  work  of  genius 
at  the  end " 

Eric's  laugh  interrupted  her  eager  outpour. 

"I'm  quite  satisfied  to  be  an  observer  of  life." 

"Dear  child,  you're  quite  satisfied  with  everything. 
You're  sunk  in  soulless  contentment;  you  shirk  emotion 
because  it  would  force  you  to  see  below  the  pink-and-white 
surface ;  that's  why  you  write  such  bad  plays.  Margaret !" 
She  approached  Lady  Poynter  with  outstretched  arms. 
"I've  argued  myself  hoarse  trying  to  persuade  Mr.  Lane  to 
fall  in  love  with  me.  Do  see  what  you  can  do !  He  shews 
all  the  obstinacy  of  a  young,  weak  man ;  he  won't  see  how 
much  I  should  improve  him.  When  he'd  learnt  life  at  my 
hands " 

Lady  Poynter  threw  a  crushing  arm  round  the  girl's 
waist. 

"Come  on,  Babs.  You're  looking  better  than  you  did," 
she  said.  "I  told  you  you'd  fall  in  love  with  him,"  she 
added,  as  they  walked  upstairs. 


32     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"There's  nothing  much  the  matter  with  Babs,"  com- 
mented Gaymer  meaningly,  as  he  shut  the  door  and  settled 
into  a  chair  beside  Lx)rd  Poynter. 


As  Barbara's  voice  faded  and  died  away,  an  air  of  guilty 
quiet  settled  upon  the  dining-room.  Eric  tidied  himself  a 
place  among  her  wreckage  of  crumpled  napkin,  sloppy 
finger-bowl,  nut-shells  and  cigarette-ash.  For  ten  minutes 
he  could  rest;  conversation  with  either  of  his  companions 
threatened  to  be  as  difficult  as  it  was  unnecessary.  John 
Gaymer,  in  upbringing,  intellect,  habits  of  mind  and  method 
of  speech,  belonged  to  a  self-centred  world  which  cheerfully 
defied  subjugation  by  a  brigade  of  Byrons,  reinforced  by 
a  division  of  Wesleys  and  an  army  of  Rousseaus ;  for  him 
there  was  one  school  and  no  other,  one  college  and  no  other, 
one  regiment,  club,  restaurant,  music-hall,  tailor,  hair- 
dresser and  no  other.  Eric  was  always  meeting  John  Gay- 
mers  and  never  penetrating  below  the  sleek,  well-bred  and 
uninterested  exterior;  they  were  politely  repellent,  as 
though  an  intrusion  from  outside  would  disturb  their 
serenity  and  the  advantageous  bargain  which  they  had 
struck  with  life;  it  might  cause  them  to  think,  and  thought 
was  a  s)monym  of  death.  The  Flying  Corps,  at  first  sight, 
was  an  unassimilating  environment  for  a  John  Gaymer, 
but  this  one  had  not  gone  in  alone  and  he  had  certainly 
not  been  assimilated.  A  closely  knit  and  self-isolated  group 
had  formed  itself  there,  as  it  could  be  trusted  to  form  itself 
in  a  house-party  or  under  the  shadow  of  the  guillotine, 
genially  unapproachable  and  uncaringly  envied. 

To  shew  his  fairness  and  breadth  of  mind  Eric  tested 
the  specimen  under  his  hand  with  politics,  the  war  and  a 
current  libel  action,  only  to  be  rewarded  at  the  third  ven- 
ture.    Before  surrendering  to  his  desire  for  silence  and 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       33 

rest,  he  glanced  under  lowered  lids  at  his  host's  blue-tinged, 
loosely-hanging  cheeks.  Conscientiously  silent  when  his 
wife  wished  to  discuss  literature  with  her  new  discoveries. 
Lord  Poynter  became  dutifully  loquacious  when  exposed 
defenceless  to  the  task  of  entertaining  them  and  took  refuge 
in  gusty,  nervous  geniality  or  odd,  sly  confidences  on  mat- 
ters of  no  moment. 

"Aren't  you  drinking  any  port  wine?"  he  demanded  of 
Eric  after  brooding  indecision. 

"Thank  you,  yes.  It's  a  '63,  isn't  it?"  Eric  asked,  as  he 
helped  himself  and  passed  the  decanter. 

Lord  Poynter's  discoloured  eyes  shone  with  interest  for 
the  first  time  that  night. 

"Ah,  come  now !  A  kindred  spirit !"  he  wheezed  welcom- 
ingly.  "I'll  be  honest  with  you ;  I  was  in  two  minds  whether 
to  give  you  that  wine  to-night.  Women  don't  appreciate  it, 
they're  not  educated  up  to  it.  It  was  that  or  the  Jubilee 
Sandeman,  and  I'm  not  an  admirer  of  the  Jubilee  wines. 
Very  delicate,  very  good,"  he  cooed,  "but — well,  you'll 
understand  me  if  I  call  them  all  women's  wines.  Now,  if 
you  like  port,  I've  a  few  bottles  of  '72  Gould  Campbell.  .  .  . 
Johnny,  your  grandfather  would  have  had  a  fit,  if  he'd  seen 
you  trying  to  drink  port  wine  with  a  cigarette  in  your 
mouth.  Not  that  it  makes  much  difference,  when  people 
have  been  smoking  all  the  way  through  dinner;  your 
palate's  tainted  before  you  come  to  your  wine.  People 
pretend  that  it  makes  a  difference  whether  you  approach  the 
tobacco  through  the  wine  or  the  wine  through  the  tobacco. 
I  don't  see  it,  myself.  ..." 

His  tongue  uncoiled,  he  soliloquized  on  wines  of  the  past 
and  present,  as  the  survivor  of  a  dead  generation  might 
dwell  dotingly  on  the  great  men  and  beautiful  women  of  a 
long  life-time.  Empire,  devolving  its  cares  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, enabled  him — as  he  explained  with  sly  gusto— to 
secure  that  there  should  be  no  inharmonious  inruption  of 


34     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

coffee  and  liqueurs  until  the  sacred  wine  had  been  in  rever- 
ent circulation  for  twenty  minutes.  Half-way  through, 
warming  to  his  new  friend,  he  rang  for  a  bottle  of  wood 
port  first  known  to  history  in  1823,  when  it  was  already  a 
middle-aged  wine,  and  fortified  from  every  subsequent 
vintage. 

"I  don't  say  you'll  like  it,  but  it's  an  experience,"  he  told 
Eric  with  an  air  of  cunning,  respectable  conspiracy.  "Like 
a  ve-ery  dry  sherry.  If  I  may  advise  you,  I  would  say, 
'Drink  it  as  a  liqueur' ;  don't  waste  your  time  on  my  brandy, 
I'm  afraid  I've  none  fit  to  offer  you.  There  was  a  tragedy 
about  my  last  bottle  of  the  Waterloo.  .  .  ." 

He  diverged  into  a  long  and  untidy  story  about  a  dinner- 
party in  honour  of  a  late  Austrian  Ambassador  which  coin- 
cided with  the  collapse  of  his  wife's  maid  with  pneumonia. 
Eric,  listening  with  half  his  brain,  wondered  whether  any 
one  would  believe  him  if  he  transplanted  the  room,  the 
conversation  and  Lord  Poynter  into  a  play;  with  the  other 
half  he  thought  of  Lady  Barbara's  advice  that  he  should 
fall  in  love,  if  not  with  her,  at  least  with  somebody.  His 
sister's  telephone  message  had  started  the  train  of  thought; 
he  was  looking  forward  to  the  week-end  and  the  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  Agnes  Waring.  The  time  would  come — 
if  there  were  many  hosts  like  Lord  Poynter  and  if  they 
all  talked  "Hibernia"  port  and  Tuileries  brandy,  it  would 
come  very  soon — when  he  would  grow  tired  of  being 
pushed  from,  one  house  to  another  and  made  to  talk  for  the 
diversion  of  sham  intellectuals.  In  this,  at  least,  he  had 
had  enough  of  his  triumphal  progress;  there  was  rest  and 
companionship  in  being  married,  it  was  the  greatest  of  all 
adventures.  .  .  .  He  wondered  how  Agnes  would  acquit 
herself  at  a  party  like  this;  he  would  not  like  people  to 
cease  inviting  him  because  they  felt  bound  to  invite  a  tire- 
some wife  as  well.  .  .  . 

Gaymer,  too,  was  growing  impatient  of  his  uncle's  cellar 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        35, 

Odyssey  and  was  calling  aloud  for  a  cigar,  while  he  scoured 
the  side-board  for  Benedictine. 

"They'll  be  wondering  where  we've  got  to,"  said  Lord 
Poynter  guiltily,  recalling  his  mind  from  a  distance  and 
lapsing  into  silence.  And  Eric  felt  compunction  in  helping 
to  cut  short  the  man's  one  half-hour  of  happiness  in  the 
day. 

In  the  drawing-room  they  found  the  four  women  seated 
at  a  bridge-table,  disagreeing  over  the  score.  Lady  Poynter 
archly  reproached  her  husband  and  Gaymer  for  "monopo- 
lizing poor  Mr.  Lane" ;  there  was  a  shuffling  of  feet,  cutting, 
changing  of  chairs,  and  Mrs.  Shelley  crept  to  the  door, 
whispering  that  she  had  to  start  work  early  next  day  or 
she  would  not  dream  of  breaking  up  such  a  delightful 
party ;  she  was  promptly  arrested  and  brought  back  by  Mrs. 
O'Rane  with  the  offer  of  Lady  Maitland's  brougham,  which 
was  to  call  for  her  at  eleven.  After  an  exhibition  of  half- 
hearted self-effacement  by  all,  a  new  four  was  made  up,  and 
Eric  found  himself  contentedly  alone  on  a  sofa  with  Lord 
Poynter  mid-way  between  him  and  the  table,  uncertain 
whether  to  watch  the  game  or  venture  on  more  conversa- 
tion. He  had  whispered:  "I  can  tell  you  a  story  about 
that  cigar  you're  smoking  .  .  .  ,"  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
second  hand,  Barbara  looked  slowly  round,  pushed  back  her 
chair  and  walked  to  the  sofa. 

"Thinking  over  your  wasted  opportunities  ?"  she  asked,  as 
she  sat  down  beside  Eric. 

"There  are  none,"  he  answered  lazily.  "I've  been  a  great 
success  to-night.  I  can  see  that  our  host  won't  rest  content 
till  I've  promised  to  dine  here  three  times  a  week  to  drink 
his  port ;  I've  been  good  value  to  Lady  Poynter ;  if  I  play 
bridge,  I  shall  lose  a  lot  of  money  to  Gaymer — not  that  I 
don't  play  quite  a  fair  game,  but  I'm  sure,  without  even 
seeing  him,  that  he  plays  a  diabolically  good  game  and  I 
know  I  shall  cut  against  him.    Mrs.  Shelley?    Every  one's 


36     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

always  a  success  with  her ;  talking  to  her  is  as  demoralizing 
as  cracking  jokes  from  the  Bench.  Mrs.  O'Rane  wants  me 
to  write  her  a  duologue — just  as  one  draws  a  rabbit  for  a 
child.  .  .  .  That  only  leaves  you.  And  you  capitulated 
more  completely  even  than  Poynter,  without  the  '63  port  as 
an  introduction  and  bond." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  with  a  dawning  smile. 

"I  think  you're  the  most  insufferably  conceited  young 
man  I've  ever  met !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I'm  adjusting  the  balance.  If  you  hadn't  disparaged  me 
the  whole  way  through  dinner.  .  .  .  Now,  when  you  got  up 
here,  you  pumped  Mrs.  Shelley  with  both  hands  for  every- 
thing you  could  get  her  to  tell  you  about  me.    Didn't  you  ?" 

"Well?" 

Eric  smiled  to  himself. 

"She's  the  only  one  here  who  knows  me,  but  she  didn't 
tell  you  much," 

"I  shan't  say." 

Three  impatient  voices  from  the  bridge-table  met  and 
struggled  in  an  unmelodious  chorus  of  "Babs!  Come — 
here !" 

She  returned  a  moment  later,  but  had  hardly  sat  down 
before  Gaymer  spread  out  the  substantial  remains  of  his 
hand  with  a  challenge  of  "Any  one  anything  to  say  about 
the  rest?    Babs,  don't  keep  us  waiting  again!" 

As  she  stood  up,  Eric  rose,  too,  and  said  good-bye. 

"I  have  some  work  to  finish  before  I  go  to  bed,"  he  told 
her. 

"Won't  you  wait  and  see  me  home?  Sonia  O'Rane's  got 
a  brougham,  and  we'll  borrow  it  first." 

Eric  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"You're  not  very  gracious,"  she  pouted. 

"It  was  so  transparent.    You  could  go  with  Mrs.  O'Rane. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        37 

Or  Gaymer  would  be  delighted  to  find  you  a  taxi.  Or  you 
could  go  on  foot." 

She  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height. 

"Instead  of  which  I  humiliated  myself  by  asking  a  small 
thing  which  was  just  big  enough  to  give  you  the  opportunity 
of  being  rude." 

She  turned  away  to  the  table,  but  stopped  at  the  sound 
of  laughter  from  Eric.  He  had  hesitated  a  moment  before 
taking  the  risk,  but  laughter  seemed  the  only  corrective  for 
her  theatrical  dignity. 

"I  spend  hours  each  day  watching  people  rehearsing  this 
sort  of  thing,"  he  murmured. 

"Why  do  you  imagine  I  ask  you  to  see  me  home?"  she 
demanded,  with  a  petulant  stamp. 

"Partly  because  you're  enjoying  me;  partly  because  you 
know  I  want  to  work  and  you  think  it  will  be  such  fun  to 
upset  my  arrangements  even  by  ten  minutes." 

Barbara  smiled  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"We're  a  game  all,"  she  pleaded,  motioning  him  back  to 
the  sofa. 

Eric  smiled  and  lit  a  cigarette  from  the  stump  of  his 
cigar. 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  driving  along  Piccadilly  to- 
wards Berkeley  Square,  Eric  rather  tired,  Barbara  excited 
and  restlessly  voluble. 

"Is  Mr.  Lane  going  to  forget  our  second  meeting  as 
quickly  and  completely  as  he  forgot  the  first  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  first?"  Eric  echoed.  "This  is  the  first  time  I've 
set  eyes  on  you — except  in  the  distance  at  theatres  and 
places." 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  your  face;  but  I  recog- 
nized your  voice  and,  if  you  will  come  into  the  house  for  a 
moment,  I  can  restore  a  certain  flask." 

Eric  turned  on  her  in  amazement. 

"Was  that  youf    Well  .  .  .  Good  .  .  .  Good  Heavens !" 


38      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Barbara  laughed  softly. 

"Try  not  to  forget  me  so  quickly  again!  I've  still  to 
apologize  for  being  such  a  beast  when  we  met  to-night.  I 
was  ill  .  .  .  and  miserable " 

"I  had  no  idea!"  Eric  cried.  "And  I  stared  at  you  for 
an  hour  on  end — trying  to  count  your  pulse  by  a  watch 
without  a  second-hand.  .  .  .  But  you've  changed  so!  I 
used  to  catch  sight  of  you  before  the  war " 

"I've  travelled  a  lot  since  then,"  she  interrupted.  "The 
whole  way  through  Purgatory  to  Hell." 

Eric  tried  to  remember  whether  the  war  had  robbed  her 
of  any  one  but  Jim  Loring. 

"Since  that  day  you've  changed  so  much  again." 

"Perhaps  I'm  taking  a  holiday  from  Hell.  And,  as  vou 
know,  I'm  not  a  good  traveller." 

He  let  down  the  window  and  threw  away  the  end  of  his 
cigarette. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  die  that  day,"  he  murmured 
half  to  himself.  "When  I  handed  you  over  to  your 
maid.  .  .  .  Lady  Barbara,  why  don't  you  take  a  little  more 
care  of  yourself?" 

"D'you  think  I  should  be  missed  ?" 

"I  can  well  imagine Here !    He's  going  wrong !" 

The  carriage  had  overshot  Berkeley  Street;  but,  as  Eric 
leaned  towards  the  open  window,  Barbara  caught  him  sud- 
denly by  the  wrist  and  shoulder  until  she  had  turned  him 
to  face  her. 

"Where  d'you  live?"  she  demanded  peremptorily;  and, 
when  he  had  told  her,  "Put  your  head  out  and  tell  him  to 
go  there." 

"But  we're  almost  in  Berkeley  Square  now." 

*T)o  as  I  tell  you !    I'm  coming  to  pay  you  a  call." 

He  disengaged  her  hands  and  lay  back  in  his  corner. 

*'It's  a  little  late  for  you  to  be  calling  on  me,"  he  said. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        39 

With  a  quick  tug  and  push  she  had  opened  the  window 
on  her  own  side  before  he  could  stop  her. 

"Oh,  will  you  drive  to  89  Ryder  Street  first,  please,"  he 
heard  her  say.  Then  she  sank  back  with  a  pursed-up  smile 
of  triumph,  "I've  no  intention  of  going  to  bed  yet,"  she 
explained. 

"I've  no  intention  of  opening  the  door  till  I've  taken  you 
home,"  he  rejoined. 

She  made  no  answer  till  the  carriage  drew  up  opposite  his 
flat. 

"It  would  be  deplorable  if  you  made  a  scene  on  the  pave- 
ment," she  observed  carelessly. 

Then  she  stepped  out  and  told  the  driver  to  go  back  to 
Belgrave  Square  for  Mrs,  O'Rane. 

It  was  a  moon-lit  night  between  half-past  eleven  and 
twelve.  Ryder  Street  had  roused  to  life  with  a  widely- 
spaced  but  steady  stream  of  men  returning  to  bed  from 
Pall  Mall  and  sparing  the  fag-end  of  their  attention  for  the 
unexpected  tall  girl  who  stood  wrapped  in  a  long  silk  shawl 
in  the  shadow  of  a  bachelor  door- way.  The  brougham 
turned  round  and  drove  away.  Eric  lighted  another 
cigarette. 

"Am  I  right  in  thinking  that  you're  being  obstinate?" 
Barbara  enquired  after  some  moments  of  silence. 

"If  you  want  me  to  take  you  home,  I'll  take  you  home. 
Otherwise  I  shall  leave  you  here,  go  round  to  the  club, 
explain  that  I've  lost  my  latch-key  and  get  a  bed  there." 

"You're  almost  oriental  in  your  hospitality,"  she  laughed. 

"I've  no  hospitality  to  spare  for  a  girl  of  twenty-two  at 
this  hour  of  the  night." 

She  stretched  out  her  arm  to  him.  In  observing  the 
beauty  of  her  slender,  long  fingers  and  the  whiteness  of  her 
arm  against  the  long  fringe  of  the  shawl,  Eric  forgot  his 
gfuard.    She  twitched  the  cigarette  from  his  lips  and  laughed 


40     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

like  a  child,  as  she  blew  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.  Cigarette, 
shawl  and  manner  suddenly  reminded  him  of  Carmen. 

"You're  so  conventional,"  she  sighed. 

Eric  became  suddenly  irritable. 

"Lady  Barbara,  you're  behaving  idiotically!"  he  cried. 
"I  know  you'd  do  anything  for  a  new  sensation,  but 
I'm  not  going  to  help.  Possibly  I'm  old-fashioned.  If  you 
think " 

"I'm  so  thirsty,"  she  interrupted.  "Have  you  any  soda- 
water?" 

"You're  sure  to  find  plenty  in  Berkeley  Square." 

"But  you're  afraid  to  give  me  any,  afraid  of  being  com- 
promised ?" 

"I've  too  many  things  to  be  afraid  of  without  bothering 
about  that.  Lady  Barbara,  you've  several  brothers,  I've  one 
sister.  If  one  of  your  brothers  saw  fit  to  invite  my  sister 
to  a  bachelor  flat " 

"But  you  h<iven't  invited  me!" 

"I  should  horsewhip  him,"  Eric  resumed  jerkily. 

She  considered  him  curiously  with  her  head  on  one  side. 

"You  know,  I  don't  feel  afraid  of  you,"  she  told  him. 
"I  could  trust  you  anywhere.  You're  not  old  enough  to 
understand  that  yet,  but  you  will." 

"Then  for  the  present  it's  irrelevant.  Come  along.  Lady 
Barbara." 

He  advanced  a  step,  but  she  only  smiled  at  him  without 
moving.  Eric  looked  angrily  round,  but  the  stream  of 
passers-by,  though  sluggish,  shewed  no  signs  of  drying  up. 
A  clock  inside  the  hall  began  to  chime  midnight,  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel.  As  he  did  so,  a  taxi  turned  into  the 
street,  and  an  officer  climbed  gingerly  out  and  hoisted  him- 
self across  the  pavement  on  two  crutches.  Barbara  coughed 
and  drew  her  shawl  round  her  until  half  her  face  was 
hidden. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       41 

"But,  Eric  dear,  you  can't  have  lost  the  key,"  she  ex- 
postulated, purposefully  clear. 

Over  the  shawl  her  eyes  were  gleaming  with  mischief  and 
triumph. 

The  officer  looked  quickly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Hullo!  You  locked  out?"  he  enquired  sympathetically. 
"Rotten  luck!  Here,  let  me  put  you  out  of  your  misery! 
Hope  you  haven't  been  waiting  long?" 

"That  is  sweet  of  you,"  said  Barbara.  "Long?  I  seem 
to  have  been  standing  here  all  day.  Come  on,  Eric;  I'm 
frightfully  tired ;  I  want  to  sit  down." 

She  walked  into  the  hall,  beckoning  him  with  a  jerk  of 
her  head.  The  officer  bade  them  good-night  and  limped 
to  a  ground-floor  flat  at  the  end. 

"I'm  going  to  my  club,  Lady  Barbara,"  said  Eric  with 
slow  distinctness  from  the  door-step. 

"Then  I  shall  bang  on  every  door  I  see  until  I  find  your 
flat,"  she  retorted  promptly.  "I've  told  you,  I  want  some 
soda-water.    And,  Eric " 

"Yes,  Lady  Barbara." 

"Eric,  I  always  get  what  I  want.  Who  lives  here,  do 
you  suppose?    We'll  try  his  door  first." 

Eric  came  in  and  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Bar- 
bara slipped  her  arm  through  his,  but  he  shook  it  away. 

"I'm  tired,"  she  explained.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
rough  with  me." 

She  replaced  her  arm,  and,  rather  than  engage  in  a 
childish  brawl,  Eric  left  it  there,  though  the  touch  of  her 
fingers  on  his  wrist  set  his  blood  tingHng.  They  walked 
slowly,  for  he  was  trying  to  set  his  racing  thoughts  in  order. 
This,  then,  was  the  true  Lady  Barbara  Neave.  He  had 
never  believed  the  fantastic  stories  about  her,  but  she  was 
now  gratuitously  shewing  him  that  she  was  of  those  who 
stopped  at  nothing. 

He  felt  the  sudden  unpitying  disgust  of  a  disappointed 


42      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

idealist.  She  was  very  young,  with  expressions  which  made 
her  wholly  beautiful  at  times.  .  .  .  "Virginal"  was  the 
word  he  was  trying  to  find.  .  .  .  He  wondered  how  to  rid 
himself  of  her  without  a  scene. 

"If  you'll  let  go  my  arm,  I'll  open  the  door,"  he  said  with 
stiflF  patience. 

She  walked  into  the  small  inner  hall  and  looked  round 
her  with  unaffected  interest. 

"I've  never  been  in  a  man's  rooms  before,"  she  remarked 
and  Eric  knew  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth.  An  ex- 
traordinary sense  of  power  came  to  him,  rushing  to  his 
head.  The  tired  eyes  and  wistful  mouth,  the  haggard 
cheeks,  the  cloud  of  fine  hair,  the  white  arms  and  slender 
hands  fed  his  hungry  love  of  beauty.  And  he  had  attracted 
her  until  she  lay  at  his  mercy.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  see  everything,  Eric,"  she  said  gently. 

He  hardly  heard  the  words ;  but  her  tone  was  confiding, 
and  she  slipped  her  hand  into  his.  A  latent  sense  of  the 
dramatic  came  to  his  rescue. 

"You  seem  to  have  put  yourself  pretty  completely  into 
my  power,"  he  observed,  closing  the  front  door  behind 
them. 

"I  know  you  so  much  better  than  you  know  me,"  she 
answered. 

"I  don't  quite  follow." 

She  laughed  gently  to  herself,  then  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"No.  .  .  .  And  you  won't  for  years  .  .  .  not  till  I've 
educated  you.  .  .  .  Am  I  right  in  thinking  that  you've 
forgotten  all  about  my  soda-water?" 


Eric  led  her  into  the  dining-room  and  gave  her  a  tumbler 
of  soda-water  with  a  hand  that  trembled. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       43 

She  had  taken  him  by  surprise  as  much  as  if  she  had 
struck  him  in  the  face.  Incuriosity  and  fastidiousness,  partly 
timid,  partly  romantic,  hacj  conspired  to  let  him  reach  the 
age  of  two-and-thirty  without  ever  kissing  or  being  kissed. 
The  act,  now  that  he  had  experienced  it,  was  nothing.  A 
warm  body,  yielding  in  self-surrender,  had  pressed  against 
him  for  a  moment;  two  hands  had  impelled  his  head  for- 
ward; he  had  been  blinded  for  an  instant  by  a  scented  billow 
of  hair ;  then  his  cheeks  had  been  touched  as  though  a  leaf 
had  blown  against  them.  That  was  the  temperate  analysis 
of  kissing.  .  .  . 

"It's  a  nice  room,  Eric,"  she  murmured,  glancing  slowly 
round  over  the  top  of  her  tumbler  at  the  panelled  walls 
and  shining  oak  table.  "And  I  like  your  invisible  lighting. 
It's  restful,  and  I  hate  a  glare.  What  other  rooms  have 
you?" 

"Kitchen  next  door,"  he  answered  with  intentional 
abruptness;  "then  the  servants'  room — you  won't  make  a 
noise,  will  you?  or  you'll  wake  them  up.  Bathroom,  spare 
room,  my  own  room,  smoking-room.  No,  the  limits  of  my 
unconventionality  are  soon  reached ;  you  can  finish  your 
soda-water  in  the  smoking-room,  and  then  I'll  take  you 
home." 

"But  I  should  like  to  see  your  room,"  she  answered  with 
the  grave  persistence  of  an  unreasonable  child.  "Mine's 
purple  and  white  in  London — purple  carpet,  purple  cur- 
tains, purple  counterpane — and  nothing  but  white — except 
the  rose-wood,  of  course — at  Crawleigh." 

"This  is  the  smoking-room,"  said  Eric,  conscientiously 
firm  and  unimpressed, 

Barbara  gave  a  little  gasp  of  pleasure  as  he  flooded  the 
room  with  light.  Book-cases  surrounded  three  walls, 
stretching  half-way  to  the  ceiling  and  topped  with  rose- 
bowls  and  bronzes.  The  fourth  was  warmed  by  long  rose 
Du  Barry  curtains  over  the  two  windows;  between  them 


44     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

stood  a  Chippendale  writing-table.  The  rest  of  the  room 
was  given  up  to  an  irregular  circle  of  sofas  and  arm- 
chairs, white-covered  and  laden  with  rose  Du  Barry  satin 
cushions,  surrounding  a  second  table. 

"I  am  glad  I  came !"  she  cried.  "You  know  how  to  make 
yourself  comfortable,  Eric!  Of  course,  the  first  cigarette 
I  drop  on  your  adorable  grey  carpet — you  see  how  it 
matches  my  dress? — the  first  cigarette  spoils  it  for  ever. 
And  the  roses!"  With  a  characteristically  impulsive  jerk 
she  dragged  the  tulle  band  and  artificial  flower  from  her 
hair,  tossed  them  to  Eric  and  stretched  her  hand  up  for  a 
red  rose  to  take  their  place.  "Ah !  beloved  celibate !  not  a 
mirror  in  the  room!    I  shall  have  to " 

"Please  stay  where  you  are,  Lady  Barbara." 

She  crammed  the  rose  carelessly  into  her  hair  and 
dropped  on  the  nearest  sofa, 

"Do  take  that  coat  off  and  sit  down  here!"  she  begged 
him. 

"I'm  waiting  to  take  you  home." 

"But  I'm  not  going  home  yet.  I'm  enjoying  myself, 
I'm  happy." 

"I'm  waiting  to  take  you  home,"  he  repeated. 

She  pouted  and  glanced  up  at  him  through  half-closed 
eyes. 

"You  don't  care  whether  I'm  happy  or  not.  You're 
soullessly  selfish !"  She  looked  round  and  helped  herself 
to  a  cigarette ;  then  her  hand  crept  invitingly,  with  the  shy 
daring  of  a  mouse,  along  the  sofa.    "I  want  a  match," 

Eric  took  the  cigarette  and  replaced  it  in  its  box, 

"Bed-time,"  he  said.  "This  meeting  was  not  of  my  con- 
triving, Lady  Barbara,  and,  when  you've  learned  the  mean- 
ing of  words,  you'll  find  that  it  won't  affect  your  happi- 
ness  " 

His  flow  was  arrested  by  a  startling  gasp. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       45 

"Oh,  it's  no  good!"  Barbara  cried.  "You're  hopeless, 
hopeless." 

To  his  amazement  she  had  sprung"  to  her  feet,  angry  and 
disfigured,  forgetting  to  break  through  his  guard,  tossing 
her  weapon  away;  no  longer  teasing,  imperious  or  pur- 
posely reckless;  and  without  one  of  her  disarming  lapses 
into  simplicity.  It  was  the  mingled  pain  and  anger  of  a 
flesh-wound  clumsily  reopened.  The  next  moment  she  had 
collapsed  on  the  sofa,  stiffly  upright,  staring  at  him  with 
hot  eyes.  Then  the  set  cheeks  and  compressed  lips  relaxed 
like  the  scattering  petals  of  a  blown  rose;  her  mouth 
drooped,  her  eyes  half-closed,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

Eric  looked  in  consternation  at  her  puckered,  pathetic 
face,  suddenly  colourless  save  for  dark  rings  round  the 
big,  hollow  eyes.  Then  he  sat  down  and  drew  her  to  him, 
patting  her  hand  and  talking  to  her  half  as  if  she  were 
a  child,  half  as  though  she  were  capable  of  understand- 
ing his  weighty  diagnosis. 

"Lady  Barbara!  Lady  Barbara!  Are  you  listening  to 
me?  You  mustn't  cry — really.  ...  It  takes  away  all 
your  prettiness.  Now,  you  were  fairly  hard  on  me  at 
dinner,  weren't  you?  But  I  do  possess  some  intelligence; 
I  didn't  need  to  have  Lady  Poynter  shouting  from  the 
house-top  that  you  were  ill.  You're  worn  out,  you  ought 
to  be  in  bed  and  you  ought  to  stay  there,  instead  of  ex- 
citing yourself.  Lady  Barbara,  please  stop  crying!  I  don't 
know  what  I  said,  but  I'm  very  humbly  sorry.  Won't  you 
stop?" 

She  stiffened  herself  with  a  jerk  and  smiled  as  abruptly. 

"It  was  my  fault.  I've  not  been  well  and  I've  been  very 
miserable.  Give  me  a  little  kiss,  Eric,  to  shew  you're  not 
angry  with  me." 

She  leaned  forward  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders 
again. 


46      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Why  should  I  be  angry  with  you?"  he  asked  with  a 
defensive  laugh. 

Her  hands  dropped  into  her  lap. 

"You  won't  kiss  me?" 

"What  difference  would  it  make  ?" 

"I  ask  you  to.    What  difference  would  it  make  to  you?" 

Eric  fumbled  industriously  with  a  cigarette. 

"It  so  happens  that  I've  never  kissed  any  one,"  he  said, 
"except  my  mother  and  sister,  of  course."  Then,  as  she 
sat  hungrily  reproachful,  he  repeated :  "What  difference 
would  it  make  ?" 

"You  wouldn't  understand  .  .  ."  she  sighed.  "And 
yet  I  thought  you  would.  Where  did  you  get  that  tray 
from,  Eric  ?    You've  never  been  to  India,  have  you  ?" 

"It  was  given  me  by  an  uncle  of  mine.  Lady  Barbara — 
If  it  will  give  you  any  satisfaction.  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  with  shame-faced  timidity  and 
became  discursively  explanatory. 

"The  candle-sticks  were  looted  during  the  Commune," 
he  began  hurriedly.  "I  was  given  them  as  a  house-warming 
present.    The  clock  .  .  ." 

Barbara  was  wandering  listlessly  round  the  room  and 
paying  little  attention  to  what  he  was  saying.  She  explored 
the  book-cases,  ransacked  the  writing-table  and  looked 
curiously  at  the  horse-shoe  paper-weight, 

"You  can  give  this  to  me,  Eric,"  she  suggested  over  her 
shoulder. 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  a  present.  Given  me  on  my  first 
night." 

"It  would  still  be  a  present,  if  you  gave  it  to  me.  I  had 
one,  but  I  broke  it.  All  my  luck's  left  me  since  ,then.  Are 
you  superstitious  ?" 

"Not — in — the — least!  I  keep  this  for  associations  and 
a  toy.  If  I  could  bring  out  a  play  on  Friday  the  thir- 
teenth  " 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        47 

"If  you're  not  superstitious,  there's  no  excuse  for  not 
giving  it  to  me." 

She  tossed  the  horse-shoe  into  the  air  and  caught  it 
neatly  with  her  right  hand. 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  get  you  another  one,"  he  promised,  "but 
I  don't  know  whether  they're  made  in  England." 

"It  might  make  all  the  difference  to  me,"  she  pleaded, 
catching  the  horse-shoe  with  her  left  hand.  "It's  only  a 
toy  to  you — a  child's  toy." 

Eric  shook  his  head  at  her.  Barbara  pouted  and  threw 
the  horse-shoe  a  third  time  into  the  air,  bending  forward 
to  catch  it  behind  her  back  as  it  dropped.  Eric,  watching 
apprehensively,  saw  a  flash  of  apprehension  reflected  for 
an  instant  in  her  eyes;  then  there  was  a  tinkle  of  broken 
glass. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  I  wouldn't  have  done  that  for  the 
world !"  she  cried,  pressing  her  hands  against  her  cheeks. 
"I've  destroyed  your  luck  now!  What  a  fool  I  was! 
Abject  fool !" 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Eric  laughed. 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  that  for  the  world,"  she  repeated 
with  a  white  face. 

"And  you're  living  in  the  year  of  grace  nineteen-fif teen  ? 
It's  only — What  did  we  call  it?  A  child's  toy.  And,  be- 
tween ourselves,  it  wasn't  a  very  efficient  paper-weight. 
I  can  assure  you  I  shan't  miss  it." 

"Perhaps  you  will  some  day.  And  then  you'll  lift  up 
your  hands  and  curse  the  hour  when  you  first  met  me." 

Eric  looked  complacently  at  the  airy  room,  the  crowded 
book-cases,  the  soft  chairs,  the  bellying  curtains  and  the 
neat  pile  of  manuscript  on  his  writing-table. 

"Aren't  you  perhaps  exaggerating  your  potential  in- 
fluence on  my  life?"  he  suggested. 

Barbara  went  back  to  her  sofa  and  helped  herself  to  a 
cigarette  without  hurry  or  fear  that  this  time  it  would  be 


48      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

taken  from  her;  she  smiled  for  a  match — and  smiled 
again  when  it  was  given  her. 

"Aren't  you  perhaps  boasting  too  soon,  my  self-satisfied 
young  friend?    Your  education's  only  just  beginning." 

Eric  lighted  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  beside  her.  He 
no  longer  insisted  that,  for  health  or  propriety,  she  must 
go  home  at  once;  and  in  some  forgotten  moment  he  had 
involuntarily  taken  off  his  overcoat. 

"I  wonder  what  you  think  you  can  teach  me,"  he  mused. 
"I  wonder  what  you  know,  to  start  with." 

"I  know  life." 

"A  considerable  subject." 

"I've  had  considerable  experience." 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  chimed  one.  Neither 
seemed  to  notice  it,  for  Barbara  was  becoming  auto- 
biographical. Her  story  was  ill-arranged  and  discursive, 
with  personal  characteristics  of  Lord  Crawleigh  sand- 
wiched between  her  life  at  Government  House,  Ottawa, 
and  a  thwarted  romance  between  her  brother  and  a  design- 
ing American.  She  flitted  from  her  four  years  in  India  to 
Viceregal  Lodge,  Dublin,  with  a  procession  of  damaging 
encounters  with  her  father  as  stepping-stones  in  the  nar- 
rative. (From  her  account  it  was  Lord  Crawleigh  who 
sustained  most  of  the  damage.)  He  could  never  shake  off 
a  certain  pro-consular  manner  in  private  life  and  had  re- 
duced his  sons  to  blundering  and  untrustworthy  aides-de- 
camp and  his  wife  to  a  dignified  but  trembling  squaw. 
Barbara  alone  resisted  him. 

"What  can  he  do?"  she  asked.  "He  whipped  me  till  I 
was  ten,  but  I'm  too  big  for  that  now.  He  can't  very  well 
lock  me  in  my  room,  because  the  servants  would  leave  in 
a  body.  They  adore  me.  If  he'd  tried  to  stop  my  al- 
lowance, I  should  have  gone  on  the  stage — we've  settled 
that  point  once  and  for  all  with  Harry  Manders,  half-way 
through  the  stage-door  of  the  Hilarity.    Now  I've  got  my 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION       49 

own  money.  Mind  you,  I  adore  father,  and  he  adores  me ; 
most  people  adore  me;  but  I  must  do  what  I  like.  You 
see  that  now;  but  I  had  to  shew  you,  I  had  to  break  my 
way  in  here  by  main  force." 

Eric  looked  up  in  time  to  catch  a  glint  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  unexpected  and  disconcerting.  He  had  been  imagining 
that  she  was  merely  over-indulged;  but  the  glint  warned 
him  that  Barbara  would  make  a  bad  enemy,  cruel  perhaps 
and  unscrupulous  certainly.  The  next  moment  she  was 
again  like  a  child,  grown  haggard  with  fatigue;  and  he 
gave  her  a  slice  of  cake  and  some  milk,  which  she  accepted 
obediently  and  with  a  certain  surprised  gratitude. 

"Where  d'you  imagine  all  this  is  going  to  end  ?"  he  asked 
her,  though  the  question  was  addressed  more  to  himself. 
"You're  twenty-two,  you've  been  everywhere,  seen  every- 
thing, met  everybody.  You're  utterly  uncontrolled  and  so 
sated  and  restless  that,  rather  than  go  to  bed,  you'll  com- 
promise yourself  by  sitting  talking  to  me  half  the  night  in 
a  bachelor  flat." 

"Poor  Val  Arden  used  to  talk  like  that.  He  always 
called  me  Lady  Lilith,  because  I  was  older  than  good  and 
evil.  I'm  sorry  Val's  dead ;  he  was  such  fun.  'In  six  years' 
time — one  asks  oneself  the  question.  .  .  /  It  wasn't 
'rather  than  go  to  bed,'  not  altogether." 

"It's  a  nervous  disease,"  Eric  interrupted  shortly. 

"Because  I  cried  just  now?    I  was  very  unhappy,  Eric." 

"My  dear  Lady  Barbara,  you  live  in  superlatives.  You 
don't  know  what  happiness  or  unhappiness  means.  You 
were  badly  overwrought  then,  so  you  cried  and  said  you 
were  miserable." 

She  looked  at  him  and  raised  her  eyebrows  without 
speaking. 

"It's  wonderful  how  wrong  quite  clever  people  can  be," 
she  said  at  length.  "I  was  miserable,  I  wanted  to  be 
kissed,  I  was  hungry  for  the  smallest  crumb  of  affection. 


50     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

I  wanted  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  And  you  can  only  see  me 
as  neurotic.    D'you  feel  you're  a  good  judge?" 

"Of  happiness?" 

Eric  smiled  complacently  and  again  glanced  lovingly 
round  the  room.  Barbara  sighed  in  pity  and  looked  at  her 
watch. 

"I  seem  to  have  come  in  the  way  rather,"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

"The  butterfly  that  settles  on  the  railway  track  may  be 
said,  I  suppose,  to  come  in  the  way  of  a  train.  .  .  .  I'm 
going  to  take  you  home  now." 

"You're  not  sorry  I  came?    Fm  not." 

"It  was  worth  while  meeting  you,"  he  laughed. 

As  Eric  struggled  with  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  she  twined 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  The  scent  of  carnations  was  now 
faintly  blended  with  the  deeper  fragrance  of  the  single 
rose  behind  her  ear. 

"And  you'd  never  kissed  any  one  before,"  she  whispered. 

It  was  nearly  day-light  when  they  found  themselves  in 
the  street.  Two  special  constables,  striding  resonantly 
home,  looked  curiously  at  them;  but  Barbara  had  again 
pulled  up  her  shawl  until  it  covered  half  her  face.  Pic- 
cadilly was  at  the  mercy  of  scavengers  with  glistening 
black  waders  and  pitiless  hoses;  otherwise  they  seemed  to 
have  all  London  to  themselves. 

With  a  head  aching  from  fatigue,  Eric  tried  to  recon- 
struct the  fantastic  evening.  Little  detached  pictures  jostled 
their  unconvincing  way  through  his  brain — Lady  Poynter's 
formal  dining-room  and  the  barren,  self-conscious  literary 
discussion ;  Lord  Poynter's  wheezing  confidences  about  the 
wood  port  which  should  properly  be  taken  as  a  liqueur. 
He  saw  again  the  bridge-table  with  Gaymer,  neat,  im- 
maculate and  repellent,  calling  in  a  high  nasal  voice  for 
Barbara  to  rejoin  them.  The  drive  home  was  a  blank  until 
he  was  galvanized  by  her  leaning  through  the  window  and 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  EMOTION        51 

directing  the  coachman  to  Ryder  Street.  Thereafter  facts 
gave  place  to  emotions,  and  the  other  emotions  to  an  in- 
credulous elation  that  Barbara  Neave  should  have  thrown 
herself  at  his  feet.  Perhaps,  of  course,  she  was  only  emo- 
tion-hunting. .  .  .  But  she  had  lain  at  his  mercy.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  that,  too,  was  an  emotion  to  be  wooed,  enjoyed 
and  recorded.  Any  one  less  artificial  could  at  least  be  glad 
that  they  were  passing  out  of  each  other's  life,  as  they  had 
come  into  it,  without  expectation  or  regret. 

"You'd  better  not  come  any  farther,"  she  advised  him, 
as  they  reached  the  end  of  Berkeley  Street.  "If  anybody 
should  be  awake  and  looking  out  of  the  window  .  .  ." 

He  nodded  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  have  your  latch-key?" 
•  "Yes,  thanks.    Good-night,  Eric." 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Barbara." 


^'Between  men  on  the  Stock  Exchange  it  is  a  platitude 
that  you  cctn  only  get  a  price  in  selling  wJuit  some  one  else 
wants  to  buy;  between  m£n  mid  women  outside  the  Stack 
Exchange  this  is  often  considered  a  paradox."  From  the 
diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE 


"CoNSTANTiNE :  From  seventeen  to  thirty- four  .  .  .  the  years 
which  a  man  should  consecrate  to  the  acquiring  of  poHtical  virtue 
.  .  .  wherever  he  turns  he  is  distracted,  provoked,  tantalised  by  the 
bare-faced  presence  of  woman.  How's  he  to  keep  a  clear  brain  for 
the  larger  issues  of  life?  .  .  .  Women  haven't  morals  or  intellect 
in  our  sense  of  the  words.  They  have  other  incompatible  qualities 
quite  as  important,  no  doubt.  But  shut  them  away  from  public  life 
and  public  exhibition.  It's  degrading  to  compete  with  them  .  .  .  it's 
as  degrading  to  compete  for  them.  .  .  ." 

Granville  Barker:    "The  Madras  House." 


The  latest,  costliest  and  most  ingenious  mechanical  de- 
vice in  Eric's  bedroom  was  an  electric  dial  and  svv^itch- 
board  communicating  with  the  kitchen  and  so  constructed 
that,  by  moving  a  clock-hand,  the  corresponding  dial 
abandoned  the  non-committal  elusiveness  of   "Please   call 

me  at "  for  "Please  call  me  at  8.00  {or  9.00  or  9.30)." 

There  was  something  calculatedly  dissolute  about  the  in- 
vention (which  cost  £17.10  and  had  struck  work  four  times 
in  three  weeks).  After  a  long  night  of  work  or  frolic,  the 
sybarite  moved  the  hand  on  for  twelve  hours — his  last  con- 
scious act  before  collapsing  into  bed;  if,  again,  he  had  re- 
tired early  or  were  so  much  debauched  that  he  could  not 
sleep,  he  wearily  set  the  hand  for  "Please  call  me  now." 

Eric  looked  with  smarting  eyes  first  at  the  luminous  clock, 
then  at  the  dial.  Half-past  five,  coupled  with  "Please  call 
me  at  eight."  He  undressed  ruminatively,  reheated  his  hot- 
water  can  at  the  gas-ring,  methodically  folded  his  clothes, 
smoothed  his  trousers  away  in  their  press,  selected  a  suit 

52 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  53 

for  the  following  day,  washed  face  and  hands,  brushed 
teeth  and  hoisted  himself  into  bed.  The  dial  must  stand 
as  he  had  left  it.  Lady  Barbara  Neave  had  come — and 
gone ;  she  was  not  going  to  disturb  his  work. 

His  sleep  seemed  to  be  interrupted  almost  instantly  by 
the  arrival  of  a  maid  with  tea,  rusks,  letters  and  The  Times. 
His  head  was  hot,  but  he  was  singularly  untired;  that 
would  come  later. 

His  letters  varied  little  from  day  to  day ;  two  appeals  for 
free  sittings  with  Bond  Street  photographers;  four  re- 
ceipts ;  one  bill ;  a  dignified  protest  from  a  country  clergy- 
man who  had  been  shocked  by  the  line:  "Oh,  you're  not 
sending  me  down  with  that  woman,  Rhoda?  She's  God's 
first  and  most  perfect  bore."  There  was  an  ill-written  re- 
quest for  leave  to  translate  his  play  into  French,  three 
news-cuttings  to  herald  his  new  play,  a  conventional  letter 
from  his  mother,  two  petitions  for  free  stalls  from  im- 
pecunious friends  and  nine  invitations  to  luncheon  or  din- 
ner. He  had  hardly  finished  reading  them,  when  a  pencilled 
note,  sent  by  hand  from  Mrs.  Shelley,  made  the  tenth. 

Eric  piled  his  correspondence  under  the  butter-dish  to 
await  his  secretary's  arrival  and  turned  methodically  to 
The  Times.  Half-an-hour  later  he  rang  for  his  house- 
keeper and  subjected  her  book  to  scrutiny.  A  leather- 
bound  journal  with  a  snap-lock  lay  on  his  table,  and  he  next 
wrote  his  diary  for  the  previous  day.  "So  to  dinner — 
rather  late — with  Lady  Poynter  to  meet  her  nephew,  Capt. 
Gaymer  (R.  F.  C).  Mrs.  O'Rane  (as  beautiful  as  ever,  hut 
too  voluble  for  my  taste),  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Lady  Barbara 
Neave.  Meredithian  debate  on  tvine  with  Lord  P.,  which 
I  would  give  anything  to  put  into  a  play.  Bridge;  hut  I 
cut  out."  He  hesitated  and  drummed  with  his  fingers  on 
the  thick  creamy  pages.  "Took  Lady  B.  home  rather  late 
and  cincuitously." 


54     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Then  his  secretary  knocked  and  settled  herself  on  the 
edge  of  an  arm-chair. 

"Good-morning,"  Eric  began.  "Will  you  write  first  of 
all  to  the  manager  of  the  bank " 

The  telephone  rang  with  a  dull  drone  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed,  and  the  girl  made  tentative  movements  of  discreet  de- 
parture. 

"No,  you  deal  with  this!"  Eric  cried.  "Out  of  London. 
You're  not  sure  when  I  shall  be  back.  Can  you  take  a 
message?" 

The  girl  picked  up  the  instrument,  while  Eric  glanced 
again  through  his  letters. 

"Hullo !  Yes.  Yes.  He's — away,  I'm  afraid.  .  .  .  But,  you 
see,  he's  away.  .  .  ."  She  looked  despairingly  at  Eric.  "He's 
awa^ay!"    Then  breathlessly  she  clapped  the  receiver  back. 

"It  was  Lady  Barbara  Somebody;  I  couldn't  hear  the 
surname.  She  said  you  weren't  away  and  she  must  speak 
to  you.    I  thought  it  was  best " 

Eric  had  to  collect  himself  before  answering.  In  the 
sane  cold  light  of  early  morning  the  overnight  escapade 
was  a  draggled,  unromantic  bit  of  folly.  If  he  met  Bar- 
bara again,  he  would  make  things  as  easy  as  possible :  there 
would  be  no  allusions,  no  sly  smiles;  the  whole  thing  was 
to  be  forgotten.  And  yet  she  was  already  digging  it  from 
under  the  lightly  sprinkled  earth.  If  she  were  throwing  her- 
self on  his  mercy,  it  was  unnecessary;  he  had  said  "Good- 
bye  .  .  ."  very  distinctly.  And  she  must  surely  know  that 
she  need  not  beg  him  not  to  talk.  .  .  . 

"You  were  quite  right,"  he  told  his  secretary.  "Where 
were  we?    Oh,  the  manager " 

The  bell  rang  again.  Eric  frowned  and  picked  up  the 
receiver,  while  the  girl,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  tip- 
toed out  of  the  room.  Barbara  had  already  disturbed  his 
time-table  for  thirty  seconds.  .  .  . 

"Hullo?    Mr.  Lane  is  away  at  present,"  he  said.    There 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  55 

was  a  pause.  "I  told  you  yesterday,  Lady  Barbara.  Just 
as  when  you  say  'Not  at  home.'  .  .  .  I'm  exceedingly 
busy  and  I  must  have  a  few  days  to  myself.    Good-bye." 

The  constant  factor  in  her  overnight  autobiography  was 
that  every  one  had  always  done  what  Barbara  wanted ;  but, 
if  she  fancied  that  she  was  going  to  break  into  a  working- 
day  with  any  of  her  nonsense,  she  would  be  disappointed. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  line  a  gentle,  rather  tired  voice 
said: 

"Don't  cut  me  off.  If  you  know  the  trouble  I've  had  to 
get  hold  of  you!  Eric,  why  aren't  you  in  the  book? 
Another  device  for  escaping  your  adorers  ?  I've  been  pur- 
suing you  round  London  for  a  good  half-hour;  then  your 
people  at  the  theatre " 

"Is  it  anything  importantT"  he  interrupted  curtly. 

"It's  very  important  that  you  should  listen  most  politely 
and  carefully  and  patiently  and  attentively  when  I'm  talk- 
ing to  you.  So  far  you  haven't  asked  how  I  am,  you 
haven't  told  me  how  you  are " 

"I've  suggested  that  I'm  very  busy/'  he  interrupted  her 
again. 

"But  I  don't  allow  that  sort  of  thing  to  stand  in  the  way." 

"And  /  don't  allow  any  one  to  break  into  my  time. 
Good-bye " 

"Eric,  don't  you  dare  ring  me  off!  I  want  to  know 
whether  you'll  lunch  here  to-day.  I've  collected  rather  an 
amusing  party." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't." 

"Where  are  you  lunching?  At  home?  Then  you  can 
certainly  come.  ...  I  don't  care  who's  lunching  with  you. 
.  ;  .  If  you  don't — Well,  you'll  see.  In  the  meantime,  has 
Marion  Shelley  invited  you  to  dine  to-night  and  are  you 
going?" 

"Yes,  to  the  first;  no,  to  the  second,"  Eric  answered. 
"Lady  Barbara " 


56     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"It  must  be  'yes'  to  the  second,  too,  dear  Eric.  I  rang 
her  up  at  cock-crow  to  say  that  you  wanted  her  to  invite 
us  together.  You  do,  you  know ;  you  want  to  see  whether 
last  night's  impression  was  true;  that's  why  I  asked  you  to 
lunch.  .  .  .  Now  I  want  to  know  if  you've  a  rehearsal 
to-day,  because,  if  so " 

"Lady  Barbara,  I  am  going  to  cut  you  off,"  said  Eric 
distinctly. 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  was  about  to  ring  for  his 
secretary,  when  his  memory  was  arrested  by  the  picture 
of  Barbara  springing  to  her  feet,  reviling  him,  collapsing  on 
the  sofa  and  bursting  into  tears.  "Bully  her,  and  she 
cries,"  he  murmured  impatiently,  "Don't  bully  her,  and 
she  bullies  you.  I'm  not  cut  out  for  the  part  of  tame  cat. 
Another  forty-eight  hours,  and  she'll  expect  me  to  drive 
round  London  and  look  at  dresses  with  her.  .  .  ."  But 
if  his  petulance  had  made  her  cry  again  .  .  .  Eric 
hunted  for  a  pen  and,  without  involving  himself  in  deli- 
cacies of  address,  wrote — "I  am  not  discourteous  by  pref- 
erence, but  you  drive  me  to  it.  La  comedia  k  finita."  He 
left  the  note  unsigned  and  asked  his  secretary  to  have  it 
sent  by  hand  to  Berkeley  Square.  When  it  had  left  him 
past  recall,  he  felt  that  he  could  have  done  better;  and  he 
knew  that  he  would  have  done  best  of  all  by  not  writing. 
.  .  .  But  he  was  irritated  by  her  too  insistent  unconven- 
tionality;  irritated  and  yet  rawly  elated  by  his  ascendancy 
over  her. 

His  secretary  returned,  and  he  dictated  to  her  until  half- 
past  nine  struck.  It  was  his  signal  to  get  up  so  that  he 
could  be  dressed  by  ten,  so  that  he  could  work  from  ten 
till  one,  so  that  he  could  walk  out  and  lunch  at  one-thirty, 
observing  his  time-table  punctually. 

The  telephone  rang  again,  and  Mrs.  Shelley  enquired 
tonelessly  whether  he  had  received  her  invitation. 

"Oh,  Eric !    I  did  hope  you  could  come !"  she  exclaimed. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  57 

"Can't  you  reconsider?  Poor  Babs  seems  so  anxious  to 
see  you  again." 

Mrs.  Shelley,  then,  had  the  wit  to  guess  where  the  initia- 
tive lay. 

"I'm  afraid  that  the  privilege  of  gratifying  Lady  Bar- 
bara's whims " 

He  forgot  how  he  had  meant  to  finish  the  sentence,  and 
there  was  a  pause. 

"Don't  you  like  her,  Eric?"  asked  Mrs.  Shelley.  "Most 
people  fall  a  victim  the  first  time  they  meet  her." 

"I've  outgrown  the  susceptible  age,"  he  laughed.  "And, 
anyway,  I'm  working.  It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to  invite 
me,  Mrs.  Shelley " 

"Eric,  I  wish  you'd  reconsider,"  she  interrupted  before 
he  could  repeat  his  refusal.  "I  feel  you'll  be  doing  her  a 
kindness  by  coming;  you  amused  her  and  turned  her 
thoughts.  ...  I  was  dreadfully  distressed  last  night;  she 
looked  as  if  she  were  going  into  a  decline.  .  .  ." 

In  contrast  to  Mrs.  Shelley's  toneless  voice  Eric  heard 
again  Barbara's  abrupt,  startling  cry,  "You're  hopeless, 
hopeless !" — just  before  she  collapsed  limply  on  the  sofa 
and  cried  about  something  which  she  would  not  ex- 
plain, ... 

"You  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  refuse,"  he  said  with 
an  uneasy  laugh. 

"I'm  so  grateful !    I  knew  you'd  come,  Eric." 

He  threw  back  the  bed-clothes  and  rang  for  his  bath. 

"I  suppose  Lady  Barbara  will  think  she  knew  I  was  com- 
ing, too,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  don't  mind  being  made  a 
fool  of  once.  .  .  ." 

At  noon  he  tidied  his  papers  and  lighted  a  cigarette  while 
he  waited  for  a  call  from  his  agent.  The  "Divorce"  was 
being  produced  in  America;  and  for  an  arid,  perplexing 
half-hour  Mr.  Grierson,  with  eyes  half-closed  in  the  grey 


58      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

smoke  of  his  cigar,  pushed  cables,  letters,  copies  and  a 
draft  agreement  across  the  table. 

"Stay  and  have  some  lunch,"  Eric  suggested,  as  half- 
past  twelve  struck.  "Manders  is  due  any  time  now.  He 
wants  me  to  make  certain  alterations  in  the  'Bomb-Shell,' 
and  you  can  keep  me  in  countenance.  I'm  getting  rather 
tired  of  being  told:  'Of  course,  with  great  respect,  Lane, 
you're  a  new-comer  to  the  theatre.  .  .  .'  New-comer  I  may 
be,  but  it  doesn't  lie  in  Manders'  mouth  to  say  so,  if  he'll 
trouble  to  calculate  how  many  thousands  I've  put  in  his 
pocket.  .  .  .  Isn't  this  the  sort  of  time  when  one  has  a 
cocktail  ?" 

Grierson's  eyes  lighted  up  at  the  suggestion,  and  Eric 
rang  for  ice.  He  was  in  the  middle  of  his  preparations 
when  Harry  Manders  entered  in  a  suit  of  light  tweeds, 
clutching  a  flat-brimmed  bowler  hat  in  one  hand  and  a 
leather-topped  cane  in  the  other. 

"  'Momin',  Eric.  Hullo,  Phil !  Sinister  combination  for 
a  poor  devil  of  an  actor-manager — author  and  agent. 
What's  this  you're  givin'  me?  Well,  only  up  to  the  top — 
On  my  honour,  boy,  only  up  to  the  top !"  He  nodded  over 
the  brimming  glass  with  a  knowing  "Well,  chin-chin!"  and 
subsided  diagonally  into  a  chair  with  his  legs  across  one 
arm. 

"I  thought  Grierson's  age  and  experience  might  save  my 
play  from  further  amateur  surgery,"  Eric  explained. 

"Tootaloo,"  chirped  Manders  resiliently  and  dragged  a 
crumpled  script  from  his  pocket.  Eric's  obstinate  as- 
surance would  have  exasperated  any  other  manager,  but,  as 
Manders  wearily  said,  "I've  been  too  long  at  the  game  to 
lose  my  temper." 

With  that  they  settled  to  work  and  argued  their  way 
through  the  marked  passages  of  Manders'  copy  heatedly 
and  without  reaching  conviction  or  agreement.  Once 
Grierson  rose  and  shook  a  second  cocktail;  twice  a  maid 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  59 

announced  that  luncheon  was  on  the  table.  Something, 
which  he  attributed  to  his  broken  night,  made  Eric  unrea- 
sonable to  a  point  where  he  knew  that  he  was  being  un- 
reasonable. He  was  too  tired  for  anything  except  sustained 
obstinacy,  and  his  companions  grated  on  him. 

"Oh,  let's  have  something  to  eat !"  he  exclaimed  at  length. 
"The  second  act's  got  to  stand  as  I  wrote  it.  We  shan't  do 
any  good  by  talking.  .  ,  ." 

"Now  don't  you  be  in  a  hurry,  boy,"  began  Manders. 
"Turn  back  to  the  beginning.  .  .  ." 

Eric  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Don't  forget  we've  a  rehearsal,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know  what  there  is  for  lunch,  but  it  will  be  tepid." 

"Then  let's  wait  for  it  to  get  cold.  Now,  in  the  first  act 
you  said — Damn!" 

He  flapped  the  script  impatiently  on  his  knee  as  the  now 
familiar  knock  of  Eric's  parlour-maid  was  heard  yet  again. 

"Lady  Barbara  Neave  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  whispered  a 
little  breathlessly. 

"Will  you  please  say  that  I  can't  possibly  see  any  one?" 
Eric  answered  curtly.  "Tell  her  that  two  gentlemen  have 
come  to  see  me  on  business.    Ask  her  to  leave  a  message." 

He  turned  to  find  Manders  smiling,  as  though  to  say, 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  us?  We  should  have  understood. 
We're  men  of  the  world." 

"The  -first  act,"  Eric  repeated  earnestly.  "As  you  will, 
but  do  go  ahead  with  it.    I  want  some  lunch." 

For  five  seconds  the  three  men  turned  the  limp,  dog's- 
eared  pages  until  they  had  found  the  place.  Manders 
cleared  his  throat  unreservedly  and  then  looked  up  with  an 
expression  of  ebbing  patience,  as  the  door  opened  again. 
This  time  there  was  no  knock,  and  Lady  Barbara  walked 
in  after  hesitating  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to 
identify  Eric.  She  was  wearing  a  black  dress  with  a  trans- 
parent film  of  grey  hanging  from  the  shoulders,  a  black 


6o     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

hat  shaped  like  a  butterfly's  wings  with  her  hair  visible 
through  the  spider's  web  crown.  One  hand  swung  a  sable 
stole,  the  other  carried  to  and  from  her  mouth  a  half-eaten 
apple. 

"Eric,  please  invite  me  to  lunch  with  you!"  she  begged. 
"You've  such  delicious  food,  I  was  shewn  into  your  din- 
ing-room and  I  could  hardly  resist  it.  There's  a  dressed 
crab — I  behaved  perfectly,  I  didn't  touch  it — and,  if  all 
three  of  you  had  the  weeniest  little  bit  less,  there'd  be 
enough  for  us  all.    Hullo,  there's  Mr.  Manders !" 

She  shook  hands  and  waited  for  Eric  to  introduce  Grier- 
son. 

"You're  interrupting  an  important  discussion.  Lady  Bar- 
bara." 

"Is  it  about  your  new  play  ?  Oh,  then  I  can  help !  But, 
if  you  knew  how  hungry  I  was " 

"They're  expecting  you  to  lunch  at  home,"  Eric  inter- 
rupted.   "You  told  me  you  had  a  party." 

"But  I've  just  telephoned  to  say  that  I've  been  invited 
to  lunch  here!  I've  burnt  your  boats.  Father  was  per- 
fectly furious,  because  mother's  lunching  with  Connie 
Maitland,  and  he  counted  on  me  to  see  him  through." 

As  she  smiled  at  Eric  with  her  head  on  one  side,  he  re- 
alized that  work  was  over  for  the  morning. 

"I  daresay  there  will  be  enough  for  four,"  he  answered. 

"Then  for  goodness'  sake  let's  begin  before  any  one  else 
turns  up  unexpectedly!"  she  cried,  catching  him  by  the 
sleeves  and  drawing  him  to  the  door. 

Grierson  and  Manders  smiled  and  followed  them,  care- 
fully brushing  cigar-ash  from  their  clothes  and  smoothing 
the  back  of  their  hair. 


Elation  battled  with  annoyance  in  Eric's  mind  through- 
out luncheon.    Barbara  had  sought  him  out,  when  a  hun- 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  6i 

dred  other  men — several  of  them,  like  George  Oakleigh, 
undisguisedly  in  love  with  her — might  have  been  preferred 
to  him ;  but  he  was  offended  by  her  proprietory  attitude  to- 
wards his  work  and  life.  Manders  would  have  the  whole 
story,  too,  helped  out  with  first-rate  mimicry,  running 
through  the  Thespian  Club  by  dinner-time ;  it  would  spread 
in  twenty-fours  through  all  of  the  London  that  knew  him 
and  half  of  the  London  that  knew  her;  and  Eric  Lane 
would  be  quoted  as  the  latest  foil  or  companion  in  the  latest 
Barbara  Neave  story.  One  did  not  even  want  the  girl  to 
be  made  a  peg  for  Manders'  wit.  .  .  . 

The  luncheon,  Eric  observed  morosely,  was  cheaply  suc- 
cessful, for  Barbara  talked  with  barely  concealed  desire  to 
lay  Grierson  and  Manders  under  her  spell.  By  intuition  or 
accident  she  gave  them  what  tickled  their  interest  most 
keenly — intimate  stories  about  herself  or  her  friends,  the 
proved  history  of  what  to  them  had  hitherto  been  but  allur- 
ing gossip,  anecdotes  of  Government  House  and  the  minor 
secrets  and  scandals  of  her  father's  three  terms  of  office. 
Eric  felt  that  it  was  a  little  below  the  dignity  of  a  girl, 
who  was  after  all  the  daughter  of  a  distinguished  former 
viceroy,  to  be  discussing  herself  and  her  friends  so 
freely.  .  .  . 

They  had  lost  count  of  time  when  Grierson  looked  fur- 
tively at  his  watch  and  jumped  apologetically  to  his  feet. 
As  he  hurried  out  of  the  room  Barbara  again  asked  Eric 
whether  he  had  a  rehearsal  that  day. 

"Because  I  want  to  come,"  she  explained  wheedlingly, 
with  her  head  on  one  side. 

Her  eyes  were  dark  and  tired  after  her  overnight  excite- 
ment; she  had  exhausted  herself  with  talking;  and  for  a 
moment  Eric  forgot  to  be  irritated  and  only  saw  her  as  a 
child  whom  it  would  be  ungracious  to  disappoint.  Then 
he  remembered  one  phase  of  a  rambling  story  in  which 
her  love  of  getting  her  own  way  had  caused  her  cavalier  of 


62      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

the  day  to  wait  in  his  car  from  midnight  until  six  be- 
cause she  had  forgotten  to  leave  a  message  that  she  had 
already  gone  home.  In  the  story  Eric  could  not  remem- 
ber any  apology  from  Barbara.  Triumphs  came  so  quickly 
and  easily  that  she  expected  everything  and  valued  nothing ; 
a  man  was  sufficiently  rewarded  by  being  allowed  to  fall 
in  love  with  her.  .  .  . 

"I'm  afraid  rehearsals  aren't  open  to  the  public,"  he  told 
her,  brusquely  enough  to  dismiss  the  appeal,  he  hoped,  but 
not  so  brusquely  as  to  hurt  her. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  glint  of  defiance  which  he 
had  seen  once  before ;  then  she  turned  to  Manders. 

"Please,  I  want  to  come  to  the  rehearsal,"  she  begged. 
"It's  your  theatre,  Mr.  Manders." 

"It's  my  play,"  Eric  interrupted. 

She  turned  her  head  long  enough  to  say : 

*'I  was  asking  Mr.  Manders." 

"But  it  happens  that  I  also " 

Manders  intervened  with  a  clucking  noise  of  the  tongue. 

"Keep  the  ring,  keep  the  ring!"  he  cried.  "You  got  out 
o*  bed  the  wrong  side,  Eric  boy.  Don't  quarrel,  do-ant 
quarrel!  If  Lady  Barbara  wants  to  come,  let  her!  It's 
against  the  rules,  but  I'll  make  an  exception  for  her."  The 
girl  rewarded  him  with  a  glowing  smile.  "You'll  be  bored, 
my  dear,  I  warn  you." 

"Oh,  if  I  am,  I  can  talk  to  Eric." 

"Look  here,  Manders,  if  a  rehearsal's  worth  taking  at 
all,  it's  worth  taking  seriously,"  cried  Eric  petulantly.  "I've 
plenty  of  other  use  for  my  time." 

Manders  was  faintly  amused  by  the  outburst  and  wholly 
unmoved.  Dire  experience  of  the  jealous  and  irascible  had 
taught  him  that  he  could  not  afford  to  let  other  people  lose 
their  tempers. 

"Lady  Barbara  will  promise  not  to  talk,"  he  prophesied. 
"We're  late,  boy." 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  63 

"I  shall  talk  afterwards,"  she  warned  them.  "At  din- 
ner to-night — Mr.  Manders,  I  can't  get  Eric  to  see  what 
bad  plays  he  writes  and  what  good  plays  he  might  turn 
out.    He's  very  funny  about  it." 

"Authors  are  a  rum  lot!"  said  Manders  jocosely,  slap>- 
ping  Eric's  shoulder.  "See  about  a  taxi,  boy.  I  don't 
let  my  people  keep  me  waiting  and  I  don't  want  them  to 
wait  for  me." 

It  was  a  defeat  for  Eric,  formally  recorded  by  Barbara 
with  that  glint  of  triumph  which  was  beginning  to  fill  him 
with  misgiving.  They  drove  in  silence  to  a  side  street  off 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  groped  their  way  through  the 
stage-door  down  a  cork-screw  staircase  and  along  several 
short  passages  which  branched  disconcertingly  to  right  or 
left  as  soon  as  Barbara  fancied  that  she  could  walk  ahead 
with  impunity.  From  above  came  the  mechanical  runs 
and  flourishes  of  a  piano-organ  against  the  drone  of  traf- 
fic; somewhere  below  there  was  a  rapid  squeak  of  voices. 
The  corridors  and  stairs  were  wrapped  in  warm  dark- 
ness, and,  after  one  stumble,  Eric  felt  a  hand  running  down 
his  sleeve  and  twining  round  his  fingers. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?"  Barbara  whispered.  "You 
were  so  grumpy  in  the  taxi.  And  I  made  such  a  success 
of  your  lunch.  Mr.  Manders  and  Mr.  Grierson  loved  me, 
and  I  made  even  you  smile." 

Eric  tried  to  locate  Manders  in  the  velvety  darkness  be- 
fore replying. 

"You  were  very  amusing,"  he  answered  unenthusias- 
tically. "But  it's  possible  to  be  amusing  even 'when  you're 
making  rather  a  nuisance  of  yourself  to  several  very  busy 
men." 

A  sigh  fluttered  wistfully  through  the  darkness,  and  he 
felt  her  drawing  closer  to  him. 

"AreT;'t  you  a  little  bit  brutal,  Eric  ?" 

"Don't  you  find  every  one  brutal  who  doesn't  fetch  and 


64     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

carry  and  wait  out  in  the  snow  for  you  all  night — and  give 
you  material  for  new  stories?  .  .  .  Stand  still  while  I  find 
the  handle." 

He  led  her  through  a  studded  iron  door  into  the  twilit 
auditorium.  The  stalls  were  swathed  in  holland  covers, 
and  there  was  a  brooding  warm  desolation  which  invited 
undertones.  Barbara  looked  with  growing  interest  at  a 
sprawling  group  of  two  men  and  three  women  on  the 
stage.  Without  make-up  they  were  white  and  featureless 
in  the  glare  of  the  foot-lights;  they  were  jaded  and  a  little 
impatient,  too,  but  Manders,  who  seemed  to  make  his  per- 
sonality unyielding  and  metallic  on  entering  a  theatre,  gal- 
vanized them  into  alertness.  A  wooden  platform  had  been 
built  over  the  middle  of  the  orchestra ;  and,  as  soon  as  he 
had  disposed  of  Barbara  in  the  stalls,  Eric  mounted  it  and 
seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair.  Manders  cautiously 
squeezed  past  him,  script  in  hand,  to  the  stage ;  there  was  a 
preliminary  cough,  a  cry  of  "Beginners,  please!"  and  the 
rehearsal  opened. 

Eric  allowed  the  first  act  to  be  played  without  interrup- 
tion; at  the  end  he  jumped  up  and  entered  into  whispered 
conversation  with  Manders,  turning  the  leaves  of  the  manu- 
script and  tapping  them  impressively  with  his  pencil.  One 
player  after  another  emerged  from  the  wings  and  stood 
listening,  nodding  and  discussing  as  each  point  was  thrashed 
out.  A  few  minutes  later  Manders  came  down  into  the 
stalls  and  sat  by  Barbara. 

"Just  a  breather,"  he  explained.  "No  good  nagging  your 
people,  particularly  when  they've  been  at  the  job  for  years 
and  you're  a  new-comer.  .  .  .  Some  of  my  spoiled  darlings 
find  that  a  little  Eric  goes  a  long  way.  You're  sure  you're 
not  bored,  my  dear?" 

"I  can't  see  very  well,"  Barbara  answered.  "If  I  had  a 
chair  on  the  little  platform " 

Manders  wasted  an  unseen  wink  on  her. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  6$ 

"Well,  you  mustn't  talk  to  Eric,  that's  all.  And,  if  you 
see  you're  making  him  nervous,  you  must  run  away." 

He  helped  her  up  and  accommodated  her  with  a  property 
foot-stool  by  Eric's  chair,  leaving  her  for  a  moment's  re- 
sentful scrutiny  by  a  young  woman  who  had  been  arguing 
with  winsome  persuasiveness  about  a  speech  which  Eric 
under  pressure  from  Manders  had  consented  to  cut. 

"Who's  that,  Eric?"  Barbara  whispered,  as  he  settled 
into  place. 

"Mabel  Elstree." 

"H'm.  She  doesn't  seem  to  like  my  being  here.  .  .  . 
Does  everybody  call  you  Eric?" 

"You're  well  placed  to  answer  that.  Now,  Lady  Bar- 
bara, remember  your  promise:  no  talking!" 

The  act  was  played  a  second  time,  taking  form  and  life 
as  all  warmed  to  their  work.  Eric  watched  with  critical 
narrowed  eyes,  no  longer  scattering  pencil-marks  in  the 
margin  of  the  script,  restrained,  impassive  and  absorbed. 
Barbara  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  ankles  and 
her  head  resting  against  his  knee.  Only  when  the  act  was 
ended  did  he  seem  to  become  aware  of  her;  then  he  edged 
away  and  stood  up. 

"Better!     Very  much  better!     Just  turn  to  the  place 

where "     He  rustled  back  into  the  middle  of  the  act 

and  had  it  played  through  to  the  curtain. 

Half-an-hour  later  Barbara  emerged  into  sunshine. 
Eric  was  tired  and  rather  husky,  but  pleased  and  hopeful. 
His  earlier  irritability  was  forgotten  save  when  it  obtruded 
itself  reproachfully  to  remind  him  that  he  had  been  scantly 
civil  to  the  girl  by  his  side. 

"The  next  thing  is  a  taxi,"  he  murmured,  as  they  came 
out  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue. 

"You  wouldn't  dream  of  taking  me  home  and  offering 
me  some  tea?"  she  suggested. 

"I  would  not.  Lady  Barbara,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 


66     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Your  practice  of  visiting  young  unmarried  men  in  their 
rooms  should  be  promptly  checked.  But  I'll  drop  you  in 
Berkeley  Square,  if  you  like." 

"That  would  be  more — respectable.  It's  curious  how 
you  seem  to  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  do  anything  I 
ask  you." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  make  much  difference  to  the  re- 
sult." 

She  ceased  pouting  and  smiled  self -confidently  for  a 
moment.  Then  her  assurance  left  her,  and  she  slipped  her 
arm  timidly  through  his. 

"Am  I  being  a  nuisance,  Eric?  You  said  so,  and — oh, 
it  did  hurt!  I  honestly  enjoyed  myself  this  afternoon;  and 
I  wasn't  so  very  much  in  the  way,  was  I  ?  Don't  you  like 
me  to  enjoy  myself?  Don't  you  like  to  see  me  happy? 
Are  you  sure  you're  not  a  little  bit  sorry  you  were  so 
brutal  to  me?" 

"My  conscience  is  quite  easy,  thanks.  Lady  Bar- 
bara  " 

He  hesitated  and  felt  himself  flushing. 

"Yes?" 

"Lady  Barbara — ,  I  don't  understand  you,  I  don't  be- 
gin to  understand  you." 

"You  won't  write  a  good  play  till  you  do,"  she  laughed. 
"All  your  women  are  romantic  dolls.  We're  much  better 
and  much  worse  than  you  think.  But  that  wasn't  what 
you  started  to  say." 

"I  know.  .  .  .  Well,  you  oughtn't  to  have  come  to 
my  rooms  last  night.  And  you  oughtn't  to  have  come  to- 
day, though  that  wasn't  as  bad.  .  .  .  What  d'you  imagine 
people  like  Grierson  or  Manders  think?  What  d'you 
imagine  Mabel  Elstree  thinks,  when  you  sit  with  your  head 
against  my  knee?" 

She  withdrew  her  arm  and  walked  for  some  time  without 
speaking. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  67 

**I*m  sorry  if  I'm  compromising  you  with  your  friends," 
she  said  at  length. 

"And  whether  you  compromise  yourself  doesn't  matter  ?" 

"I  suppose  I'm  used  to  it,"  she  sighed ;  then,  with  one  of 
her  April  changes,  the  sigh  turned  into  a  provocative  laugh. 
"If  you  don't  mind  being  compromised  by  me,  I'd  make 
you  write  a  wonderful  play.  My  technique's  so  good.  All 
you  have  to  do  is  to  fall  in  love  with  me " 

"I  shan't  have  the  opportunity,"  he  interrupted.  "We 
meet  to-night  at  Mrs.  Shelley's " 

"And  we  were  so  positive  that  we  weren't  goings !"  she 
murmured.    "You  don't  want  to  see  me  again?" 

Eric  hailed  a  passing  taxi. 

"I  like  meeting  you,"  he  told  her  frankly  enough.  "You 
amuse  me — and  you  interest  me  enormously.  But  I've 
work  to  do  .  .  .  for  one  thing.  .  .  ," 

She  seated  herself  in  the  taxi  and  held  out  her  hand 
through  the  window. 

"You  might  come  and  call  for  me  to-night,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

Eric  shook  his  head.  He  was  shy  of  entering  a  house 
to  which  he  had  not  been  officially  admitted,  confronting  a 
strange  butler,  being  pushed  into  a  room  to  wait  for  her, 
meeting  and  explaining  himself  to  Lord  Crawleigh  or  one 
of  the  brothers,  who  would  look  superciliously  at  "Babs' 
latest  capture."  .  .  . 

"I'll  meet  you  at  Mrs.  Shelley's,"  he  said. 

The  hand  was  withdrawn,  and  he  could  see  her  biting  her 
lip. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured. 

"There's  no  need  to  be." 

"I  was  apologizing  to  myself — for  giving  you  another 
opportunity  of  refusing  something  I  asked  you  to  do 
for  me." 

Eric  walked  back  to  his  flat,  puzzled  and  irritated.    The 


68      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

girl  was  intolerably  spoiled ;  nothing  that  you  did  was  right, 
there  was  altogether  too  much  wear  and  tear  in  trying  to 
adapt  yourself  to  her  moods.  .  .  . 
Even  if  you  wanted  to.  .  .  . 


The  rehearsal,  despite  Barbara,  was  over  in  good  time, 
and  Eric  could  lie  unhurriedly  in  his  bath  without  fear  of 
being  late  for  Mrs.  Shelley's  dinner.  Two  days  of  his  holi- 
day had  already  slipped  away,  and  he  had  made  little  mark 
on  the  work  which  he  had  schemed  to  do.  To-morrow  he 
would  start  in  earnest.  .  .  . 

Barbara.  .  .  .  He  could  not  remember  what  had  set 
him  thinking  about  her.  She  looked  desperately  ill,  but 
that  was  not  his  fault,  nor  could  he  cure  her;  which  dis- 
posed of  Barbara.  .  .  .  What  she  needed  was  some  one 
who  would  pull  her  up,  steady  her,  master  her.  .  .  .  Un- 
fortunately— for  her — he  could  not  spare  the  time;  nor 
was  it  part  of  his  scheme  of  life  to  effect  her  physical  and 
moral  regeneration.  .  .  .  And  it  was  now  the  moment  to 
begin  dressing. 

Mrs.  Shelley's  house  lay  between  Sloane  Square  and  the 
river;  and  Eric  arrived  punctually  to  find  her  insipidly 
grateful  to  him  for  coming,  A  self-conscious  Chelsea  party 
was  assembling;  there  -were  two  war-poets,  whose  "Trench 
Songs"  and  "Emancipation,"  compensating  want  of  finish 
with  violence  of  feeling,  had  made  thoughtless  critics  won- 
der whether  the  Great  War  would  engender  a  new  Eliza- 
bethan splendour  of  genius ;  there  was  Mrs.  Manisty,  who 
claimed  young  poets  as  of  right  and  helped  them  to  parturi- 
tion in  the  pages  of  the  Utopia  Review;  there  was  a 
flamboyant,  short-haired  young  woman  who  had  launched 
on  the  world  a  war-emergency  code  of  sex-morals  under 
the  guise  of  a  novel;  there  were  three  bashful  aliens  sus- 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  69 

pected  of  being  pianists  and  one  self-assured  journalist  who 
told  Mrs.  Shelley  with  suitable  heartiness  that  he  had  not 
met  Mr.  Lane,  but  of  course  he  knew  his  ivork  and  went 
on  to  ask  Eric  if  he  was  engaged  on  a  new  "work."  The 
flamboyant  woman,  Eric  observed,  talked  much  of  "crea- 
tion" and  its  antecedent  labour;  the  trench  poets,  with  pro- 
fessional modesty,  referred  to  their  "stuff."  A  fourth  alien 
entered  and  was  greeted  and  introduced  in  halting  French, 
to  which  he  replied  in  rapid  and  faultless  English. 

Eric  looked  round  on  a  triumph  of  ill-assortment.  He 
came  here  partly  out  of  old  friendship  for  his  hostess,  but 
chiefly  for  fear  of  seeming  to  avoid  a  section  of  society 
which  at  least  took  itself  seriously.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  a  Byronic  descent  on  Chelsea;  these  people  would 
ever  cringe  before  the  face  of  success  and  disparage  be- 
hind its  back,  as  they  had  always  done ;  they  made  a  suburb 
and  called  it  a  school.  For  ten  years  Eric  had  listened  to 
their  theories  and  discoveries ;  after  ten  years  he  was  still 
waiting  for  achievement.  The  very  house,  with  its  "art" 
shades  of  upholstery,  its  hammered  brass  fenders,  its 
wooden  nooks  and  angles  filled  with  ramshackle  book- 
cases, hard  seats  and  inadequately  stuffed  cushions,  was  ar- 
tificial; it  was  make-believe,  pretentious,  insincere.  .  .  . 

"Lady  Barbara  Neave." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  excitement,  the  more  noticeable 
against  the  conscientious  effort  of  several  not  to  seem 
interested.  Eric  smiled  to  himself,  as  the  young  journal- 
ist, interrupted  in  his  discourse  on  "the  aristocracy  of 
illiterates,"  watched  Barbara's  entry  and  posed  himself  for 
being  introduced.  She  looked  round  with  slow  assurance, 
fully  conscious  of  the  lull  in  conversation  and  of  the  eyes 
that  were  taking  stock  of  her.  Eric  felt  an  artistic  admira- 
tion for  her  way  of  silently  dominating  a  room. 

"Am  I  late,  dear  Marion?"  she  asked,  with  the  smile  of 
startled  recognition  which  made  men  and  women  anxious 


70     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

to  throw  protecting  arms  round  her  thin  shoulders.  "Eric 
and  I  have  been  rehearsing  our  play — the  new  one,  I  mean, 
that  I'ni  taking  in  hand — and  I  had  such  a  lot  to  do  when 
I  got  home."  She  displayed  adequate  patience,  while  Mrs. 
Shelley  completed  her  introductions,  and  then  crossed  to 
Eric's  corner.  "Glad  to  see  me  again?"  she  whispered. 
"I've  decided  that  you're  to  lunch  with  us  on  Saturday." 

"And  I've  decided  to  gladden  the  hearts  of  my  family 
by  going  down  to  Winchester,"  he  answered. 

"But  you  must  go  later.  I'll  come  with  you,  if  you'll 
find  a  practicable  train ;  I'm  going  to  Crawleigh.  Say  you'd 
like  to  travel  down  with  me." 

"I  make  a  practice  of  sleeping  in  the  train,"  he  answered. 

"You  won't  on  Saturday.  Sometimes,  Eric,  I  find  your 
little  practices  and  habits  and  rules  rather  tiresome ;  I  must 
educate  you  out  of  them.  By  the  way,  I  want  to  be  seen 
home  to-night." 

It  was  a  disappointing  dinner  for  Eric,  as,  after  com- 
ing to  gratify  Barbara,  he  was  separated  from  her  by  the 
length  of  the  table.  In  conversation  Mrs.  Shelley  always 
gave  people  what  was  good  for  them  rather  than  what 
they  liked;  Barbara  was  accordingly  set  next  to  an  art 
editor,  who  tried  to  wheedle  from  her  an  article  on  "Eastern 
Decoration  in  Western  Houses,"  while  Eric  found  himself 
sandwiched  without  hope  of  escape  between  Mrs.  Manisty, 
who  discussed  poetry  which  he  had  not  read,  and  the  flam- 
boyant novelist,  who  had  lately  discovered  and  insisted  on 
exposing  a  mutual-admiration  ring  in  the  novel-reviewers 
of  the  London  press. 

If  dull,  the  meal  was  at  least  hot  so  embarrassing  as  his 
dinner  of  the  night  before  with  Lady  Poynter.  Barbara 
seemed  chilled  by  uncongenial  company,  though  she 
touched  his  hand  on  her  way  to  the  door  and  turned,  with 
patent  consciousness  that  she  was  being  watched,  to  give 
him  a  parting  smile.    Mrs.  Manisty  also  turned,  before  she 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  71 

could  control  her  curiosity,  to  see  for  whom  the  smile  was 
intended.  And,  as  Eric  threw  away  his  match  after  light- 
ing a  cigar,  he  found  two  of  the  men  smiling. 

In  the  absence  of  a  host  to  pull  them  together,  six  groups 
self-consciously  set  themselves  to  discover  a  subject  of  con- 
versation more  worthy  of  their  steel  than  either  the  even- 
ing communique  or  the  port.  The  three  alien  pianists  had 
reduced  themselves  to  a  Polish  sculptor,  an  Irish  novelist 
and  a  Scottish  portrait-painter.  By  sitting  next  to  the 
journalist,  Eric  saved  himself  the  effort  of  talking  and 
recuperated  at  leisure  after  the  exhausting  boredom  of 
dinner.  He  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  Barbara  again, 
feeling  disappointment  that  she  was  not  in  the  big  shadowy 
drawing-room  when  he  arrived — (but  she  would  come  any 
moment) — and  a  little  proprietory  thrill  of  pleasure  when 
she  walked  straight  across  the  room  to  him.  But  her  man- 
ner, her  use  of  his  Christian  name — (and  Mrs.  Shelley 
knew  that  they  had  first  met  less  than  twenty-four  hours 
ago) — her  clear-voiced,  unabashed  habit  of  flirtation,  the 
parting  smile  at  the  door.  .  .  . 

One  of  his  neighbours  interrupted  the  ill-humoured  train 
of  thought  by  introducing  himself  in  a  pleasant,  soft 
brogue. 

"Er,  me  name's  Sullivan,  Mr.  Lane.  Ye  know  Priestley, 
I  expect?  Priestley  and  I  have  been  concocting  a  great 
scheme.  I  have  a  new  book  coming  out  in  the  spring  and 
I'm  wanting  a  girl's  head  for  the  frontispiece.  Well,  since 
I  saw  Lady  Barbara  to-night,  there's  only  one  head  that 
will  do  for  me.  And  Priestley's  the  one  man  to  do  it. 
Charcoal,  ye  know;  a  single  sitting  would  be  enough.  Do 
ye  think  she  would  be  willing?" 

Eric  smiled  to  hide  his  impatience. 

"Why  not  ask  her?"  he  suggested.  "She's  fairly  well- 
known,  of  course;  everybody'd  recognize  it." 

"Ah,  don't  distress  yourself!     The  book's  symbolical," 


72      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Sullivan  explained  vaguely.  "I  was  wondering  now,  would 
ye  sound  her?  Priestley  and  I  don't  know  her,  ye  see. 
And,  as  ye're  a  friend " 

"We'll  ask  her,  when  we  get  upstairs,"  Eric  answered. 

Three  tentative  chords  broke  the  silence  overhead,  and  a 
woman's  voice  began  to  sing. 

"Butterfly,"  the  journalist  jerked  out  as  though  he 
were  in  the  last  heat  of  a  competition.  "Second  act,  isn't 
it?  Where  Madame  Butterfly  hears  that  Pinkerton's  ship 
has  been  sighted.  /  never  think  Butterily's  as  bad  as  some 
of  the  high-brows  try  to  make  out.  If  you  like  that  sort 
of  thing,  I  mean,"  he  added  prudently. 

Eric  held  up  his  hand. 

"Please!    I  want  to  hear  this." 

"One  fine  day,  we'll  notice 
A  thread  of  smoke  arising  on  the  sea 
In  the  far  horizon, 
And  then  the  ship  appearing: — 
Then  the  trim  white  vessel 

Glides  into  the  harbour,  thunders  forth  her  cannon. 
See  you?    He  is  coming! — 
/  do  not  go  to  meet  him.    Not  I.    I  stay 
Upon  the  brow  of  the  hillock  and  wait,  and  wait 
For  a  long  time,  but  never  weary 
Of  the  long  waiting. 
From  out  the  crowded  city. 
There  is  coming  a  man — 

A  little  speck  in  the  distance,  climbing  the  hillock. 
Can  you  guess  who  it  isf 
And  when  he's  reached  the  summit 
Can  you  guess  what  he'll  say? 
He  will  call  'Butterfly  from  the  distance. 
I,  without  answering. 
Hold  myself  quietly  concealed, 
A  bit  to  tease  him,  and  a  bit  so  as  not  to  die 
At  our  first  meeting:  and  then,  a  little  troubled. 
He  will  call,  he  will  call: 

'Dear  baby-wife  of  mine,  dear  little  orange-blossom!' 
The  names  he  used  to  call  me  when  he  came  here.  .  .  ." 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  73 

Eric  had  allowed  his  cigar  to  go  out.  He  lighted  it  again 
and  turned  to  his  neighbour  with  an  apology,  as  the  voice 
ceased  and  then  seemed  to  revive  with  a  last  sob  of  ecstasy. 

"She  did  that  very  well.  Shall  we  go  upstairs  ?  I  should 
like  some  more.    We  can  take  our  cigars  with  us." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  made  for  the  door 
and  hurried  ahead  of  the  others.  The  drawing-room  was 
scxnbrely  lighted  by  three  low  standard  lamps  which  threw 
the  upper  half  of  the  room  into  shadow.  He  stood  for 
several  moments  with  lips  parted  and  shining  eyes,  trying 
to  identify  three  scattered  couples  of  women  before  reduc- 
ing the  figure  at  the  piano,  by  elimination,  to  Barbara. 

"I  say,  was  that  you  ?"  he  demanded. 
-  She  made  way  for  him  at  her  side,  welcoming  him  with 
a  chastened  smile  and  wondering  at  his  sudden  enthusiasm. 

"Did  you  like  it  ?  I'm  so  glad.  I  was  beginning  to  think 
you  were  a  craftsman,  but  I  believe  you're  an  artist. 
.  .  .  I'm  full  of  accomplishments,  Eric.  Pity,  isn't  it,  that 
in  spite  of  it  all ?" 

She  hesitated,  wistfully  provocative. 

"What's  a  pity?"  he  asked. 

"What  vou  were  thinking;  that  I  am  what  I  am.'* 

"I  wasn't  thinking  that,"  he  answered  dreamily.  "I  was 
wondering  if  you'd  sing  again.  We  couldn't  hear  you  at 
all  downstairs " 

"Enough  to  bring  you  up  very  quickly!*" 

He  sighed  with  exasperation. 

"Yes,  if  your  vanity  needs  a  sop.  Was  that  why  you 
sang?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  wearily,  and  he  saw  undried 
tears  on  her  cheeks. 

"Marion  just  asked  me  to  sing.  It  was  either  that  or 
talking  to  Yolande  Manisty,  and  I  hate  her.  What  would 
you  like  me  to  sing?" 

Eric  felt  ashamed  of  his  rasping  harshness. 


74      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"I  don't  know.  That  particular  song  always  makes  me 
cry.  In  spite  of  that,"  he  looked  at  her  and  smiled  to  him- 
self. "No,  I'm  going  to  be  very  self-sacrificing.  You 
said  you  wanted  me  to  take  you  home,  and  I  will — if  you'll 
come  at  once." 

"But  it's  not  half-past  nine  yet." 

"I  don't  care.  My  dear  child,  d'you  think  I  can't  see 
that  you're  tired,  ill,  over-excited " 

"It  makes  the  night  so  long,  Eric!  But — thank  you!  I 
was  beginning  to  think  you  were  a  prig,  but  I  believe 
you're  a  saint!"  The  wistfulness  left  her  eyes,  and  she 
smiled  mischievously.  "In  moments  of  emotion  how  all 
our  habits  and  practices  break  down !  'My  dear  child,'  *My 
dear  child,'  'D'you  think  I  can't  see?'  'My  dear  child/ 
*Tired,  ill,  over-excited.' " 

"I'm  sorry.  Lady  Barbara.'* 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  she  pulled  him  back. 

"You  baby !  Can't  I  make  fun  of  you  ever?  It  meant  sa 
much — just  that  little  change  in  your  voice  when  you  for- 
got to  be  inhuman.  I  prefer  'dear  child'  to  'Lady  Bar- 
bara' any  day.  Do  you  find  it  so  hard  to  be  affectionate, 
Eric?" 

"I  haven't  tried.  It  would  be  impossible  with  you.  I — I 
don't  understand  you.  When  I  was  dressing  for  din- 
ner  " 

"You  thought  you  did  ?  I'm  so  glad  you  thought  of  me, 
when  you  were  dressing  for  dinner;  I've  a  sort  of  feeling 
that  it's  not  your  practice  to  think  of  me  when  you're  dress- 
ing for  dinner." 

"I  don't  imagine  my  affection  makes  any  great  difference 
in  your  life,"  he  interrupted  stiffly. 

"Dear  Eric,  let  me  laugh  at  you  sometimes !  It's  good  for 
you  and  it's  ever  so  good  for  me.  It  isn't  as  if  I'd  laughed 
so  very  much  lately.  ...  I  will  come  home  and  I'll  go 
straight  to  bed.    But— don't  be  too  hard  on  me,  Eric." 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  75 

Her  voice  was  trembling,  and  her  eyes  had  again  filled 
with  tears. 

"May  I  say  that  I'm  'not  in  the  habit'  of  being  hard  on 
people?    But — I  don't  understand  you." 

"Ah,  now  you're  repeating  yourself,"  she  threw  back 
flippantly  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  went  to  bid  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley good-night.    "I'm  telling  Marion  I've  got  a  headache." 

Eric  felt  that  he  was  slipping  into  the  practice  of  letting 
people  make  a  fool  of  him.  .  .  . 


Though  it  was  a  fine  night,  they  sought  in  vain  for  a 
taxi  and  had  to  walk  the  whole  way  from  Chelsea  to  Berke- 
ley Square,  Barbara  with  her  arm  through  Eric's  and  her 
hand  in  his,  leaning  against  him, 

"I'm  going  away  on  Saturday,"  she  reminded  him,  as 
they  entered  Eaton  Square. 

"High  time,  too,"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  as  much  as  all  that?" 
she  a^ed  in  gentle  reproach. 

"Well,  you'll  automatically  stop  compromising  yourself 
with  me.  But  even  that  doesn't  matter  so  much  as  your 
health,  which  you're  quite  deliberately  ruining." 

She  stopped  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  drawing 
his  head  to  her  until  she  could  kiss  him.  Still  capable  of 
being  surprised,  he  thanked  Heaven — after  a  quick  survey 
— ^that  they  had  Eaton  Square  to  themselves. 

"Dear  Eric,  are  you  very  delicate?"  she  asked.  "It's 
only  when  health  is  mentioned  that  you  become  human. 
Last  night,  at  the  very  beginning  of  dinner.  .  .  .  And 
again  this  evening.  If — if  I  gave  in  and  had  a  week  in 
bed,  I  could  twist  you  round  my  finger.  Now,  don't  pull 
yourself  away  and  look  dignified!  Don't  you  see  that  I'm 


76     THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

paying  you  a  wonderful  compliment  ?    You're  like  a  woman 
— not  that  that's  a  compliment.  .  .  ." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  again,  and  they  walked 
on  past  St.  Peter's.  Barbara  was  tired  enough  by  now 
to  be  dragging  on  his  arm,  and  he  felt  a  sudden  responsi- 
bility for  her — as  he  had  felt  the  night  before  when  she 
had  implicitly  entrusted  herself  to  him.  He  glanced  down 
and  found  her  walking  with  eyes  closed  and  a  faint  smile 
on  a  very  white  face.  The  wind  was  blowing  her  hair  into 
disorder,  and  he  bent  forward  to  draw  her  cloak  more 
warmly  over  her  chest. 

She  looked  up  with  her  eyes  dark  and  sleep-laden. 

"Am  I  coming  undressed?  Eric,  you're  very  good  to 
me !  I  shall  miss  you.  Perhaps  you'll  write  to  me,  perhaps 
I  shall  be  coming  up  to  London  for  just  one  night  in  about 
a  week's  time ;  we  might  dine  together.  Are  you  coming  to 
lunch  on  Saturday?" 

"I'll  give  the  matter  my  best  consideration.  Go  to  sleep 
again,  child." 

"Dear  Eric !" 

She  roused  again  as  they  crossed  Piccadilly;  and  at  the 
end  of  Berkeley  Street  she  again  cautiously  bade  him  good- 
night, 

"And  about  Saturday?" 

Until  that  moment  he  had  decided  to  be  immovable  about 
the  Saturday  invitation.  He  did  not  want  to  go,  he  wanted 
still  less  to  make  her  think  that  he  was  going  to  please  her. 
But,  when  she  stopped  him  before  walking  on  alone  to  her 
house,  he  felt  that  their  position  must  be  regularized.  He 
had  a  certain  status  of  his  own — and  some  little  pride. 

"Yes,  I'll  come.  Delighted,"  he  said  with  sudden  de- 
termination. 

"Good-night,  dear." 

"Good-night,  Lady  Barbara." 

There  was  time  for  an  unexpected  hour's  work;  but  his 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  77 

broken  night  and  jarring  day  had  exhausted  him,  and  he 
was  glad  to  hurry  through  his  letters  and  get  into  bed. 
Once  there  he  found  himself  too  tired  even  for  the  routine 
of  reading  the  evening  paper ;  and,  while  he  tried  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  stretch  up  a  hand  to  the  switch,  he  dropped 
asleep,  clutching  the  Westminster  Gazette  and  with  the 
light  blazing  on  to  his  face. 

So  he  found  himself  five  minutes  later  when  the  tele- 
phone-ball rang.  The  voice  of  a  child,  eager  for  praise, 
said: 

"I'm  in  bed,  Eric.  And  the  light's  out.  And  I'm  going 
to  sleep  in  one  moment." 

"I  was  actually  asleep,"  he  answered. 

"My  dear!  And  I  woke  you  up?  I  am  sorry.  Go  to 
sleep  again  at  once!    Good-night!" 

But  the  sudden  shock  of  the  bell  had  made  his  nerves 
restless.  He  had,  after  all,  to  read  the  evening  paper  and 
two  chapters  of  a  novel  before  he  felt  sleepy  enough  to 
turn  out  the  light  and  compose  himself. 

Contrition,  whim  or  pressure  of  other  business  kept  Bar- 
bara out  of  his  life  the  next  morning.  He  read  his  letters 
unmolested,  dictated  to  his  secretary  undisturbed  and 
worked  until  mid-day  uninterrupted.  Then,  as  it  was  his 
practice  to  walk  for  half-an-hour  before  luncheon,  he 
abandoned  his  own  pretence  that  he  was  away  from  Lon- 
don and  strolled  along  Piccadilly  into  the  Green  Park  be- 
fore making  for  the  Thespian  Club  in  Grosvenor  Place. 
At  Devonshire  House  he  caught  himself  pausing  to  glance 
down  Berkeley  Street.  .  .  . 

At  the  club,  Manders  was  lunching  with  a  square- faced 
law  lord  and  a  doctor  with  humorous,  shrewd  eyes,  who 
called  upon  Eric  to  join  them. 

"We  never  see  anything  of  you  nowadays,"  complained 
Dr.  Gaisford. 

"I  don't  have  time  to  get  as  far  away  as  this  for  lunch 


78      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

every  day,"  Eric  answered,  as  he  pulled  a  chair  in  to  the 
table.  "You're  cutting  your  vacation  short,  aren't  you, 
Lord  Ettrick?" 

"Oh,  I  had  three  weeks'  fishing  in  Scotland,"  the  law 
lord  answered.  "Ever  since  I  came  back,  I've  been  think- 
ing that,  if  I  had  my  life  over  again  and  could  choose  my 
own  career,  on  my  soul !  I'd  be  a  gillie.  They're  a  great 
breed,  and  it's  a  great  life." 

Manders  looked  reflectively  at  the  powerful,  lined  face, 
tanned  yellow  over  a  normally  unwholesome  white. 

"I'd  'a  gone  into  the  Navy,"  he  said.  "My  idea  of  a 
holiday  is  to  get  into  old  clothes  and  moon  about  the  Docks 
or  Portsmouth — anywhere  with  salt  and  tar  about,  you 
know." 

"And  what  would  our  young  friend  do  ?"  asked  Dr.  Gais- 
ford. 

Eric  blushed  to  find  three  pairs  of  eyes  on  him.  He 
thought  resentfully  over  his  ten  years  of  journalism;  then, 
with  a  warm  rush  of  satisfaction,  he  saw  the  elaborate  lit- 
tle flat  in  Ryder  Street,  the  bathroom  poster  of  "A  Divorce 
Has  Been  Arranged,"  the  envelopes  from  his  agent  Grier- 
son,  containing  cheques  for — what  would  they  be  for? — the 
invitations,  the  pleasant  hum  of  work  and  stir  of  interest 
as  shewn  in  letters  from  country  clergymen  who  objected 
to  his  use  of  the  word  "God"  in  a  comedy  of  manners,  the 
deference  paid  him  when  he  was  invited  out  to  be  spoiled 
and  petted,  the  easy  triumphs.  .  .  . 

"If  I  had  my  life  over  again,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I 
should  alter — nothing." 

Lord  Ettrick  looked  at  him  with  raised  eyebrows,  chew- 
ing his  under-lip  reflectively. 

"I  wonder  how  long  you'll  say  that,"  he  murmured. 

A  page-boy  threaded  his  way  to  the  table  and  stood  bash- 
fully at  a  distance  with  a  tarnished  salver  pressed  against 
his  buttons. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  79 

"Wanted  on  the  'phone,  sir,"  he  whispered. 

Eric  rose  resignedly  and  followed  the  page  to  a  dark, 
lU-ventilated  box  behind  the  porters'  desk  in  the  hall. 

"Hullo!" 

"Is  that  Eric  ?  Say  what  you  like,  my  staff- work's  extra- 
ordinarily efficient!"  Barbara's  voice  rippled  into  laugh- 
ter. "You  weren't  at  your  flat,  I  just  divined  that  you'd 
be  lunching  at  your  club.  I  looked  in  Who's  Who  to  see 
which  it  was.  .  .  .  How  are  you,  Eric,  dear?  I  haven't 
seen  or  heard  of  you  since  last  night." 

Eric's  utterance  hardened  and  became  precise. 

"I  was  asleep  then ;  and  I'm  at  lunch  now." 

"Who  are  you  lunching  with?"  she  enquired  with  un- 
abashed interest. 

"Oh,  nobody  that  matters!  What  is  it,  Lady  Barbara? 
What  do  you  want,  I  mean  ?" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you.    Don't  you  like  talking  to  me?" 

"At  the  proper  time  and  in  the  proper  place.  I  say,  you 
Icnow,  this  is  becoming  a  little  bit  tiresome." 

There  was  a  short  pause;  then  a  crestfallen  voice  mur- 
mured : 

"I'm  sorry,  Eric.     I'm  truly  sorry.     I  apologize." 

"Lady  Barbara!"  he  cried. 

There  was  only  a  dull  click,  a  silence  and  then  a  brisk 
nasal  voice  saying,  "Number,  please?" 

Eric  strode  wrathfully  back  to  the  coffee-room. 

"You  can't  do  right  with  that  damned  girl,"  he  muttered. 

His  companions  were  already  paying  their  bills,  so  he 
abandoned  his  cheese  and  walked  upstairs  with  them  to  the 
bright  biscuit-coloured  card-room  overlooking  the  gardens 
of  Buckingham  Palace.  While  the  others  drank  their 
coffee,  he  tried  to  write  a  very  short,  very  simple  note  which 
somehow  rejected  his  best  efforts  of  phrasing.  He  had  torn 
tip  four  unsatisfactory  drafts  when  Lord  Ettrick  threw 


8o      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

away  his  cigar  and  asked  whether  any  one  was  walking 
towards  the  Privy  Council. 

"I'm  only  scribbling  one  note,"  Erie  answered. 

What  he  was  always  in  danger  of  forgetting  was  that 
Barbara  was  really  only  a  child;  she  had  begun  to  speak 
with  a  delightful  ripple  of  laughter,  and  he  had  driven  it 
from  her  voice.  When  she  apologized,  there  was  some- 
thing hurt,  something  very  much  surprised — as  though  he 
had  seen  her  smiling  and  slapped  the  smile  away. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  wrote.  "/  didn't  mean  to  he 
rude" 


Before  deciding  whether  to  send  his  letter  by  hand,  Eric 
ascertained  that,  by  posting  it,  he  could  be  sure  of  its  reach- 
ing its  destination  by  the  last  delivery.  Then  he  walked 
through  the  Park  with  Lord  Ettrick,  left  him  at  the  door 
of  the  Privy  Council  Office  and  returned  home  for  an  hour's 
work  before  rehearsal.  On  leaving  the  Regency,  he  came 
back  to  Ryder  Street  and  dressed  for  dinner.  His  own 
letters  clattered  into  their  wire  cage  at  a  quarter  past  eight, 
and,  before  sitting  down  to  dinner,  he  transferred  the  tele- 
phone to  his  dining-room.  The  child  was  unlikely  to  refuse 
so  open  an  invitation  to  ring  up  and  say  that  all  was 
well.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  call  during  dinner,  no  call  as  he  worked  in 
the  smoking-room  with  the  telephone  and  lamp  on  a  table 
at  his  elbow,  no  call  when  he  went  to  bed,  though  he  lay 
reading  for  half-an-hour  after  his  usual  time,  to  be  ready 
for  her.  The  morning  brought  a  pencilled'  note  ("Sur- 
prisingly tidy  hand,"  Eric  commented,  "seeing  what  she's 
like"),  instinct  with  a  new  aloofness  and  restraint.  "After 
your  refreshingly  plain  hint  that  I  was  a  nuisance  to  you,  I 
determined  that  you  should  not  have  occasion  to  suffer 
from  my  importunity.     You  may  lunch  with  us  on  Satur- 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  8r 

day,  if  you  like.  And  I  shall  he  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you^ 
but  you  must  not  feel  that  you  are  doing  this  to  please  me. 
I  SAY  as  you  think:  that  I  have  no  claim  on  you.  Bar- 
hara." 

Eric  smiled  indulgently  and  tossed  the  note  into  a 
despatch-box  before  ringing  for  his  secretary.  He  must 
be  more  careful  in  future,  .  .  . 

When  he  looked  at  his  engagement-book  on  Saturday 
morning,  he  found  that  Barbara  had  named  no  hour ;  which 
was  characteristic  of  her.  When  he  telephoned  to  the  house, 
there  was  no  answer;  which — by  no  great  stretch  of 
calumny — was  characteristic  of  the  house  in  which  she 
lived.  Ninety  per  cent,  of  the  people  that  he  knew  lunched 
at  half-past  one,  excluding  a  Cabinet  Minister,  who  lunched 
punctually  at  a  quarter  past  two,  and  three  Treasury  clerks 
and  one  novelist  who  lunched  at  one ;  accordingly,  at  half- 
past  one,  he  presented  himself  in  Berkeley  Square,  to  be 
informed  by  a  sedately  combative  butler  that  luncheon  was 
at  two  o'clock  but  that  Barbara  was  believed  to  be  in  her 
room. 

Eric  followed  his  guide  up  four  short  flights  of  marble 
stairs  and  was  shewn  into  the  untidiest  room  that  he  had 
ever  seen,  filled  in  equal  measure  with  the  priceless  and  the 
worthless.  The  bindings  of  Riviere  rubbed  shoulders  with 
tattered  paper-backs ;  a  cabinet  of  Japanese  porcelain  was 
outraged  by  foolish,  intrusive  china  cats ;  there  was  a  shelf 
of  Waterford  glass  with  a  dynasty  of  blown-glass  pigs, 
descending  from  the  ten-inch-high  parent  to  the  thumb-nail 
baby  of  the  litter — gravely  and  ridiculously  arranged  in  a 
serpentine  procession.  Fifty  kinds  of  trophy  adorned  the 
mantel-piece,  ranging  from  a  West  African  idol  at  one  end 
to  a  pathetic,  brown-eyed  Teddy  Bear  at  the  other,  with 
stiff,  conventional  photographs  and  occasional  miniatures 
for  punctuation.  He  recognized  his  own  silver  flask — and 
passed  on,  with  a  smile.     Three  small  tables  were  almost 


82      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

buried  beneath  their  load  of  pink  carnations ;  a  box  of  cigar- 
ettes, half-open  and  half-empty,  lay  tucked  between  the 
cushions  in  each  of  three  arm-chairs,  and  the  white  bear- 
skin rug  was  littered  with  The  Times,  a.  round  milliner's 
box,  two  cheque-books  and  a  volume  of  Ronsard. 

The  butler  looked  dispassionately  at  the  confusion  and 
withdrew,  giving  it  up  as  a  hopeless  task.  A  moment  later 
he  returned  to  inform  Eric  that  her  ladyship  would  be  with 
him  immediately.  Ten  minutes  later  Barbara  came  in  by 
another  door  to  find  him  cautiously  picking  his  way  through 
the  disorder  and  examining  her  books  and  pictures. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  so  early,"  she  began.  "Will  you  give 
me  a  little  kiss,  or  am  I  still  a  nuisance?" 

"You  didn't  say  any  time,  so  I  chanced  half-past  one," 
Eric  answered.  "If  you'd  told  me  to  come  at  two,  you'd 
still  have  been  ten  minutes  late,  wouldn't  you?"  he  added 
with  a  laugh.  "Lady  Barbara,  your  conception  of  tidi- 
ness  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  him  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"My  dear,  but  you  should  see  my  bedroom!"  she  sug- 
jgested. 

"The  purple  bedroom?" 

"Did  you  remember  that?  I  believe  you're  beginning  to 
like  me,  Eric.     Come  and  sit  down  instead  of  fidgeting." 

He  paused  to  finish  his  inspection,  ending  up  with  the 
nursery  toy-cupboard  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"Hullo!  I  don't  know  this  one  of  Jack  Waring,"  he 
exclaimed  on  reaching-  a  cabinet  photograph  in  a  silver 
frame. 

Barbara  lighted  a  cigarette  and  came  beside  him,  resting 
her  hand  on  one  shoulder  and  looking  over  the  other  at 
the  photograph,  her  hair  brushing  against  his  cheek. 

"He Give  me  another  match,  Eric;  this  is  burning 

jail  down  one  side It's  good,  don't  you  think?" 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  83 

"The  best  I've  ever  seen  of  him,  poor  chap.  I  must  get 
his  sister  to  give  me  one." 

"And  don't  forget  that  you're  going  to  find  out  whether 
they've  had  any  news  of  him,  will  you?  Johnny  Carstairs 
asked  the  Foreign  Office  to  make  enquiries  through  Copen- 
hagen and  Madrid,  but  he  hasn't  been  able  to  find  out  any- 
thing." 

"I  should  be  afraid  there's  nothing  to  find  out,"  Eric  mur- 
mured.    "He's  been  missing  for  weeks." 

"But  if  he's  been  wounded  or  lost  his  identification  disc — 
a  hundred  things.  And  it  takes  months  to  get  news  some- 
times.   D'you  like  my  pig  family,  Eric?" 

"Not  among  Waterford  glass,"  he  answered.  "Except  as 
part  of  the  general  setting  for  you." 

She  replaced  the  photograph,  laughing,  and  took  his  arm, 
leading  him  round  the  room  and  giving  him  the  history  of 
her  trophies,  until  a  footman  knocked  and  announced  that 
luncheon  was  on  the  table. 

Eric  spent  the  next  five  minutes  being  pushed  round  a 
large  library,  which  seemed  to  contain  twice  as  many  voices 
as  people,  and  introduced  to  a  second  person  before  he 
had  fixed  the  identity  of  the  first.  Lady  Crawleigh  was 
timorous  and  subdued,  with  an  air  of  having  been  all  her 
life  interrupted  in  the  middle  of  her  sentences  and  with  a 
compensating  pair  of  flashing  pigeon's  eyes  which  seemed 
to  miss  nothing. 

"I'm  so  glad  Babs  gave  us  the  opportunity  of  meeting 
you,"  she  said  to  Eric.  "I  enjoyed  your  play  so  much. 
Your  first,  wasn't  it?  It  must  be  a  glorious  sensation  to 
make  such  a  success  at  the  outset." 

("She  takes  in  a  thousand  times  more  than  she  ever  gives 
out,"  Eric  said  to  himself;  then  he  found  himself  being 
spun  through  the  rest  of  the  family.  "Wonder  what  she 
does  with  it?") 

Lord  Crawleigh  interrupted  an  indignant,  staccato  con- 


84      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

versation  with  Lady  Maitland,  who  was  holding  her  own 
with  emphatic  shakes  of  a  massive  head,  to  touch  finger- 
tips and  introduce  him  to  his  sister — the  whole  done 
cholerically  and  with  the  air  of  transacting  a  great  deal  of 
tiresome  business  in  a  short  time. 

("Bullies  the  life  out  of  every  one,  I've  always  heard," 
was  Eric's  private  comment,  as  he  was  introduced  to  a  pair 
of  tow-haired  young  officers  with  limp  hands;  "except  the 
girl.    And  she  bullies  him.") 

"I  knew  you  by  sight  at  Oxford,"  said  Lord  Neave,  with- 
drawing his  limp  hand  jerkily,  as  though  he  feared  that  it 
would  be  stolen.  "You  were  at  Trinity,  weren't  you  ?  You, 
er,  know  my  brother  Charles — Mr.  Lane." 

Eric  grasped  a  second  limp  hand,  received  a  quick,  busi- 
ness-like nod  from  John  Gaymer  and  found  himself  con- 
fronted by  the  Duchess  of  Ross. 

"No  one  will  introduce  us!"  she  cried  shrilly  with  a 
Vermillion  pout.  "I've  so  much  wanted  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Lane.  You  wouldn't  dine  when  I  asked  you !  Won't  some 
one  introduce  us  properly!" 

The  babble  of  high-toned  voices,  the  quick  patter  of 
speech,  the  sense  of  hurry,  the  hyperbolical  intimacy  and 
enthusiasm  were  bewildering  to  a  man  who  was  naturally 
shy  and  at  that  moment  mentally  tired.  Eric  commended 
his  soul  to  his  humour  and  circumambulated  the  room,  two 
steps  at  a  time,  until  a  sudden  lessening  of  noise  and  tension 
told  him  that  luncheon  had  dawned  upon  Lady  Crawleigh 
as  a  thing  to  be  not  only  discussed  but  eaten. 

"We've  heard  so  much  about  you  from  Babs,"  she  said, 
struggling  to  finish  one  of  her  interrupted  sentences.  "So 
good  of  you  to  bring  her  home  the  other  night." 

Eric  poised  himself  on  mental  tip-toes,  wondering,  in 
general,  how  far  Barbara  made  her  family  a  party  to  her 
life  and,  in  particular,  to  which  night  Lady  Crawleigh  was 
alluding. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  85 

"Really ,"  he  began. 

"She  gets  these  turns,"  Lady  Crawleigh  pursued.  "I 
blame  myself  entirely ;  I  allowed  her  to  stay  on  working  at 
the  hospital  when  she  simply  wasn't  fit  for  it.  Now  she  has 
to  pay  for  my  weakness." 

Eric  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"I  should  prescribe  three  months  in  the  country;  bed  at 
ten — and  make  her  stay  there  for  twelve  hours." 

"I  should  be  out  of  my  mind  in  a  week,"  Barbara  pro- 
tested. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Lady  Crawleigh,  with  a  rueful 
shrug,  turned  away  to  speak  to  Gaymer. 

"I  like  the  way  you  order  me  into  bed  and  out  of  bed !" 
Barbara  whispered.  "If  you  cared  what  happened  to  me, 
it  would  be  one  thing,  but,  when  I'm  becoming  a  bit  of  a 
nuisance,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

Eric  looked  round  cautiously  and  lowered  his  voice. 

"Lady  Barbara,"  he  began. 

"You  persist  in  that  ?" 

"Babs,  then " 

"Yes,  but  you're  receiving  a  favour,  not  conferring  it." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"You  are  the  most  exasperating " 

"Dear  Eric!  I  can't  help  teasing  you!  Are  you  the 
clever  only  child?  Well,  you  ought  to  be.  ...  I  don't  be- 
lieve any  one's  ever  teased  you  before.  You  mustn't  he 
exasperated  by  me!" 

Her  laughter  was  irresistible,  and  Eric  joined  in  it. 

"Lady  Barbara — I'm  sorry — Babs,  this  is  serious.  You 
say  you'd  be  out  of  your  mind  in  a  week,  if  you  adopted 
my  prescription.  Let  me  tell  you  this ;  if  you  go  on  as 
you're  doing  now,  you  will  go  out  of  your  mind " 

"I  shouldn't  bother  you,  if  I  were  in  an  asylum." 

Eric  stiffened  and  turned  his  attention  to  the  food  before 
him. 


86      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"You're  not  an  easy  person  to  talk  to ,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  you  dear  child!"  said  Barbara,  with  a  gurgle  of 
laughter.  "Two  minutes  ago  it  was,  'Ahaw,  Lady  Craw- 
leigh,  I  should  prescribe  .  .  .'  And  one  minute  ago  you 
became  earnest  and  loving  and  grand-paternal,  with  your 
fond  advice !  .  Eric,  I  love  you  when  you're  like  that !  Now 
don't  be  self-conscious !  'Your  ideahs  of  tidiness,  aw,  Lady 
Barbarah  .  .  .'  Whatever  people  may  say,  I  believe  you're 
intelligent.  In  time  you'll  understand."  Her  eyes  softened 
and  ceased  to  laugh  at  him.  'Less  than  half  a  week!  In 
time  you'll  know  what  you've  done  for  me,  what  I  very 
humbly  hope  and  pray  you're  going  to  go  on  doing  for 
me.  .  .  .  You'll  know  why  I  trust  you  and  love  you  more 
than  I've  ever  loved  any  one  in  my  life  before.  There! 
Is  that  plain  enough?  I  don't  say  it  excuses  my  being 
'tiresome,'  but  it  may  explain  it.  .  .  .  Now  don't  say,  'Lady 
Barbarah,  I — er — I  don't — aw — understand  you !'  "  Her 
fingers  twined  their  way  confidingly  between  his.  "Why 
bother?  Why  not  go  on  being  just  what  you  are?"  she 
whispered.  "Something  that's  made  me  think  life's  still 
worth  living.  I  don't  claim  it,"  she  added  with  a  change 
of  tone.    "I  ask  it." 

"And  will  you  do  something  for  me  in  return?"  Eric 
asked.  "Will  you  take  six  months'  complete  rest  in  the 
country,  drop  smoking ?" 

"But  I  told  you  I  should  go  out  of  my  mind  in  a  week !" 

"Will  you  go  for  six  weeks,  six  days?" 

"You  want  to  get  rid  of  me?" 

Eric  felt  his  patience  ebbing. 

"I  want  to  see  you  looking  less  of  a  haggard  little  wreck 
than  you  do  now,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Then  I'll  go.    Thank  you,  Eric." 

From  the  end  of  the  table  Lord  Crawleigh's  voice  pene- 
trated authoritatively. 


LADY  BARBARA  NEAVE  87 

"Barbara!  .  .  .  Barbara!  Are  you  coming  with  us  by 
the  4.10?" 

She  pressed  Eric's  hand  before  turning  her  head. 

"I  can't  come  till  the  5.40,"  she  said. 

"But,  my  dear  Barbara " 

"I— can't,  father." 

("Bullies  the  life  out  of  every  one,  I've  always  heard," 
Eric  repeated  to  himself,  as  Lord  Crawleigh  subsided  into 
inarticulate  blustering.  "Except  the  girl.  And  she  bullies 
him.") 

"I  did  wonderful  staff-work  with  Waterloo  this  morn- 
ing," Barbara  confided.  "The  5.40  stops  at  Winchester  and 
Crawleigh." 

"I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  Eric.  "So  could  Brad- 
shaw,  deceased." 

"But  fancy  looking  at  Bradshaw,  when  you  can  per- 
suade some  one  to  look  at  it  for  you!  .  .  .  And  you  can't 
get  awywhere  in  Bradshaw  without  going  through  the 
Severn  Tunnel  and  waiting  two  hours  at  Bletchley.  Besides, 
Waterloo  rather  loved  me.  Just  my  voice,  you  know.  .  .  . 
We'll  go  down  together.    You  can  wire  to  your  people." 

"I  told  them  I'd  come  by  the  5.40." 

"But  how  lucky!" 

"How — understanding,"  he  amended. 


"If  you  can  he  sure  of  your  opponent,  you  may  win  by 
throwing  down  your  weapon.  It  is  the  victory  of  the  weak 
over  the  strong,  the  'tyranny  of  tears!  Or  perhaps  it  is  the 
victory  of  the  weak  over  the  weaker.  But  you  must  be 
sure  of  your  opponent." — From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

LASH  MAR   MILL-HOUSE 


"I've  come  back  .  .  .  and  I  was  the  King  of  Kafiristari  .  .  .  and 
you've  been  setting  here  ever  since — O  Lord !" 

RuDYARD  Kipling  :    "The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King." 


As  the  crow  flies,  Lashmar  Mill-House  is  but  five  miles 
from  Winchester.  By  road,  however,  there  are  six  miles 
of  tolerable  grey  flint  and  rusty  gravel  on  the  Winchester 
and  Melton  turnpike,  followed  by  three  Irish  miles  of  un- 
aided forest  track.  Half  of  it  Hes  under  water  for  six 
months  of  the  year;  but  in  the  summer  a  rutted  ride  pro- 
jects from  stony  sand-pockets  framed  in  velvet  moss,  with 
tidal- waves  of  bracken  surging  up  from  the  dells  at  the 
road-side  and  low  branches  meeting  to  net  the  sun-shine. 

At  the  end  of  the  three  miles  Swanley  Forest  seems  to 
have  paused  for  breath.  There  is  a  natural  clearing  a  mile 
long  and  three  quarters  of  a  mile  broad — cherished  com- 
mon-land, where  the  Lashmar  villagers  walk  many  assertive 
miles  of  a  Sunday  to  preserve  their  rights  of  way;  where, 
too,  tethered  goats  and  errant  geese  make  good  their 
eleventh-century  claim  to  free  pasturage.  At  one  end  of 
the  down-soft  clearing,  a  Methodist  chapel,  two  shops  and 
five  cottages  constitute  the  village  of  Lashmar ;  at  the  other 
lies  Lashmar  Mill-House,  slumbering  half-hidden  by  beech 
trees  to  the  unchanging  murmur  of  the  Bort.  The  relevant 
deeds  and  charters  prove  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  lord  of 
Lashmar  Mill-House  has  the  right  to  make  Lashmar  village 

88 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  89 

grind  its  com  in  his  mill,  paying  him  in  kind  and  yielding 
three  days'  labour  a  year  to  grind  his.  The  ambitions  of 
Sir  Francis  Lane  and  of  his  eldest  son,  however,  were  not 
feudal. 

The  autumn  floods  were  lapping  the  road-side  as  Eric  and 
his  sister  left  the  twinkling  lights  behind  and  turned,  after 
a  crackling  six  miles  of  metalled  high-way,  on  to  the 
primaeval  ride  that  bored  faint-heartedly  through  the  forest. 
He  was  tired  and  uncommunicative,  though  his  journey 
from  Waterloo  had  been  uneventful;  once  inside  the  car- 
riage and  tucked  warmly  into  a  corner,  Barbara  had  closed 
her  eyes,  sighed  and  dropped  asleep.  Not  until  he  stirred 
himself  to  collect  his  hat  and  coat  did  she  open  her  eyes 
and  look  round  with  a  tired  smile ;  as  the  train  steamed  out 
of  Winchester,  an  ungloved  hand  fluttered  into  sight  for  a 
moment. 

It  was  Eric's  first  visit  to  Lashmar  since  the  production 
of  the  "Divorce"  had  made  his  name  known  throughout 
England;  and  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  he 
was  trying  to  render  his  return  agreeably  dramatic.  Lady 
Lane  assisted  the  conspiracy  by  inviting  their  few  neigh- 
bours to  meet  him ;  Sybil  was  awaiting  him  on  the  platform 
with  ill-suppressed  excitement ;  and  it  was  entirely  appro- 
priate that  Agnes  Waring  should  dine  at  the  Mill-House 
on  his  first  night  at  home. 

"Geoff  came  home  on  leave  yesterday,"  said  Sybil. 

"From  Scapa  ?  Oh,  good !  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long 
time,"  said  Eric. 

But  for  Basil,  who  was  in  Salonica,  the  party  would  be 
complete ;  and  Eric  felt  a  moment's  compunction  at  having 
allowed  himself  to  be  so  much  caught  up  by  the  work  and 
distractions  of  London.  When  the  car  stopped  at  the  door 
of  the  Mill-House,  he  looked  with  affection  at  its  squat, 
sleepy  extent,  punctuated  with  lifeless,  dark  windows  and 
wrapped  in  age-long  slumber;  as  the  door  opened,  he  saw 


90      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

his  mother  silhouetted  against  the  golden  light  of  the  hall. 

"At  last,  Eric  1"  she  cried. 

"It's  good  to  be  home  again,  mother,"  he  answered,  jump- 
ing out  of  the  car  and  embracing  her. 

While  his  sister  drove  round  to  the  stables,  Eric  walked 
arm-in-arm  with  his  mother  into  the  low,  warm  hall.  For 
more  than  thirty  years  Lady  Lane  had  guarded,  counselled 
and  provided  for  an  eccentric  husband  and  a  turbulent 
family,  shouldering  the  cares  of  all,  budgeting,  nursing  and 
educating  on  an  income  which  slipped  unrewardingly  away 
until  she  assumed  control.  She  had  learned  Greek  and 
Latin  to  help  the  boys  with  their  home-work  and  had 
trained  their  characters  in  an  austere  school  of  aggressive 
Puritanism.  If  she  were  a  little  intolerant,  at  least  she 
reared  her  children  to  a  lofty  sense  of  honour,  a  cold  chas- 
tity of  life  and  speech  and  a  fierce  refusal  to  compromise 
where  truth  or  personal  reputation  was  concerned.  Thanks 
to  her,  three  boys  and  one  girl  were  now  able  to  fend  for 
themselves;  Sybil,  factotum  and  amanuensis  to  her  father 
ever  since  she  had  learned  to  read,  could  support  herself 
anywhere ;  Geoff  was  firmly  on  his  feet  in  the  Navy,  Basil 
had  passed  into  the  Civil  Service  a  few  weeks  before  the 
outbreak  of  war.  Lady  Lane  was  justly  content  with  her 
children ;  of  Eric,  whom  she  had  kept  alive  when  the  doc- 
tors despaired  of  him,  she  was  justly  proud. 

"Come  into  the  drawing-room,"  she  said,  giving  his  arm 
a  gentle  squeeze.    "I've  got  a  fire  there." 

"Nothing's  changed,"  said  Eric  wonderingly. 

Lashmar  Mill-House,  for  all  its  size,  contained  hardly 
more  than  two  rooms  on  the  ground-floor;  a  vast,  book- 
lined  study  for  Sir  Francis,  an  equally  vast  living-room  for 
the  rest  of  the  family  and,  between  them,  a  furtive,  dark 
rectangle  where  they  hurried  through  their  meals.  Eric  had 
begged  for  years  to  have  the  back  wall  removed  from  the 
hall  to  make  an  adequate  dining-room,  but  his  mother  had 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  91 

grown  middle-aged  in  a  familiar  compass  and  did  not  care 
to  be  told  by  him  too  explicitly  how  the  house  should  be 
run  and  improved.  In  the  moment  of  arrival  Eric  was  too 
much  pleased  with  his  welcome  to  be  critical. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  said,  holding  his  face  to  the  light. 
"Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  all  this  while.  You've 
become  a  great  celebrity,  Eric." 

"There's  nothing  much  to  tell.  I've  been  doing  a  lot  of 
work,  meeting  a  lot  of  people.  .  .  .  It's  been  rather 
fun.  .  .  ." 

As  soon  as  she  had  put  away  the  car,  Sybil  joined  them 
and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  fire  and  her  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  a  short  tweed  skirt,  staring  idly  at  her  own  small 
feet  in  their  brown  stockings  and  thick  brogues  and  rousing 
herself  with  an  abrupt  jerk  of  the  head  when  she  wanted 
to  intervene  with  a  question. 

"You  were  barely  civil,  when  I  rang  you  up  the  other 
night,"  she  interjected,  in  a  pause,  with  the  disconcerting 
directness  of  nineteen. 

"I  was  late  already,  and  you  were  making  me  later," 
Eric  answered  patiently.    "That  night ?    Oh,  yes." 

He  detailed  Lady  Poynter's  dinner  to  his  mother  and 
observed  an  expression  of  mixed  curiosity  and  disapproval 
settling  upon  his  sister's  face. 

"Mrs.  O'Rane?  Sonia  Dainton  that  was?  H'm,"  said 
Sybil.  "And  Lady  Barbara  Neave.  Are  you  being  taken 
up  by  that  set  now,  Ricky?" 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean  by  'being  taken  up.' 
I  met  them  at  dinner.  .  .  .  And  I  lunched  with  the  Craw- 
leighs  to-day,"  he  added  without  filling  in  the  intervening 
encounters.  "Lady  Crawleigh  wants  me  to  go  down  there 
next  week-end,  but  I'm  too  busy;  and  week-ends  simply 
wear  me  out." 

"You  have  made  yourself  popular  with  them  all  at  once!" 
Sybil  commented.    "What's  Lady  Barbara  like?" 


92      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Interesting  girl,"  Eric  answered  casually. 

"Is  she  anything  like  what  people  make  her  out  to  be?" 

Eric  smiled  tolerantly. 

"I  don't  know  enough  of  what  people  make  her  out  to 
be,"  he  replied.  Sybil  was  smiling  mysteriously  and  exas- 
peratingly  to  herself.  .  .  .  "Is  the  guv'nor  working?"  he 
asked  his  mother. 

Eric  prowled  through  the  hall  to  his  father's  big  work- 
room. Sir  Francis  was  sitting  bent  over  a  litter  of  papers, 
with  a  green  eye-shade  clamped  to  his  lined  forehead  and  an 
ill-smelling  corn-cob  drooping  from  beneath  his  unassertive 
grey  moustache.  In  an  arm-chair  before  the  fire  Geoff  was 
contentedly  dozing  with  the  bog-mud  steaming  from  his 
boots  and  a  half-cleaned  gun  across  his  knees.  By  his  side 
an  elderly  retriever  peered  reflectively  into  the  flames  and 
from  time  to  time  yawned  silently. 

"  'Evening,  everybody,"  said  Eric.  "I've  been  sent  to 
hunt  you  off  to  dress,  father.  You  asleep,  Geoff?  If  not, 
how  are  you  ?" 

Sir  Francis  pulled  off  the  eye-shade  and  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  wintry  smile.  The  boy  in  the  arm-chair  turned  on 
to  his  other  side  and  dropped  asleep  again  with  a  disgusted 
grunt. 

"He's  got  about  a  year  to  make  up,"  explained  Sir 
Francis.  "The  Grand  Fleet  doesn't  do  much  sleeping. 
Well,  Eric,  what  news?" 

"Everything  very  much  as  usual,"  was  the  answer. 

"Everything's  always  very  much  as  usual  here,"  said  his 
father,  as  he  turned  out  the  reading-lamp. 

He  sighed  as  he  said  it,  and  Eric  tried  to  calculate  the 
number  of  years  in  which  he  had  come  down  like  this  for 
the  week-end — to  be  met,  before  the  era  of  motor-cars,  by 
a  fat  pony  and  a  governess  cart,  to  be  greeted  by  his  mother 
with  affection  which  he  never  seemed  able  to  repay,  to  drift 
into  the  library  and  detach  his  lank,  unaging  father  from 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  93 

his  studies.  Sir  Francis  had  accepted  marriage  and  the 
presence  of  a  wife  as  he  would  have  accepted  a  new  house 
and  strange  house-keeper ;  children  had  been  born ;  after 
the  publication  of  his  Smaller  Anglo-Saxon  Dictionary  the 
friend  of  a  friend  had  recommended  him,  through  a  friend's 
friend,  for  a  knighthood,  and  he  had  bestirred  himself  with 
wide-eyed,  childish  surprise  for  the  investiture  and  a  con- 
gratulatory dinner  at  the  Athenaeum,  returning  to  Lashmar 
Mill-House  grievously  unsettled  and  discontented  for  as 
much  as  a  week.  He  had  talked  of  running  up  to  London 
occasionally,  of  having  these  fellows  down  for  the  week- 
end; he  had  complained  that  he  was  growing  rusty  and 
losing  touch  with  the  world.  Then  the  murmur  of  the 
mill-stream  had  drugged  his  senses,  and  he  had  settled  to 
the  Century  Dictionary  of  Anglo-Saxon,  Volume  VH  E-G. 

After  the  restlessness  of  London,  Eric  could  not  at  once 
accommodate  himself  to  the  leisurely  contentment  and 
placidity  of  Lashmar. 

"Wake  up,  Geoff !"  he  cried. 

The  boy  yawned  and  stretched  himself  like  a  cat,  then 
became  suddenly  active  and  projected  himself  across  the 
room,  turning  in  the  door-way  to  shout :  "Bags  I  first 
bath,  Ricky!" 

"Well,  don't  take  all  the  hot  water,"  Eric  begged.  After 
the  ingenious  comfort  of  his  flat  in  Ryder  Street,  he  could 
not  at  once  accommodate  himself  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
Mill-House.  "Pity  you  never  turned  the  east  room  into  a 
bathroom,"  he  said  to  his  father.  "You  talked  about  it  for 
years.    We  need  another  one." 

It  was  an  old  controversy  and  part  of  Eric's  persistent 
but  fruitless  campaign  against  the  studiedly  Spartan  atti- 
tude of  Lashmar  Mill-House. 

"It's  rather  an  unnecessary  expense.  And  we  seem  to 
struggle  on  without  it,"  said  Sir  Francis. 


94      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"I  avoid  unnecessary  struggles  as  much  as  possible,"  Eric 
answered  shortly. 

"You  couldn't  get  the  work  done  while  the  war's  on,"  Sir 
Francis  pointed  out,  rooting  himself  firmly  in  the  particular. 

Eric  walked  upstairs,  reflecting  in  moody  dissatisfaction 
on  unnecessary  struggles.  No  one  ever  laid  out  his  dress 
clothes  for  him  at  Lashmar.  It  never  had  been  done  when 
he  was  a  school-boy,  carefully  protected  from  pampering. 
Sporadic  attempts  were  made,  whenever  he  launched  an 
offensive  against  the  domestic  economy  of  the  house;  but 
the  maids  were  always  changing,  Lady  Lane  believed  that 
all  men-servants  drank  or  stole  the  cigars.  ...  In  the  last 
resort,  these  country-bred  girls  were  so  difficult  to 
teach.  .  .  . 

Down  the  passage  came  the  sound  of  emptying  taps  and 
a  voice  singing  cheerfully  in  the  bath. 

"Don't  stay  there  all  night,  Geoff!"  Eric  cried,  banging 
on  the  door.    "It's  a  quarter  to  eight  now." 

It  was  five  minutes  to  eight  before  the  bathroom,  sloppy 
and  filled  with  steam,  was  surrendered  to  him.  No  man 
could  have  a  hot  bath  and  dress  in  five  minutes;  he  was 
particularly  anxious  to  appear  at  his  best  for  the  meeting 
with  Agnes.  .  .  . 

And  the  water  was  tepid.  .  .  . 


"I  have  been  apologizing  for  you,"  said  Lady  Lane  point- 
edly, as  Eric  hurried  late  and  ill-humoured  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

He  had  ready  at  hand  a  caustic  little  speech  about 
inadequate  hot-water  supply  and  insufficient  bathrooms,  but 
it  was  intended  for  domestic  consumption  and,  after  one 
scowl  at  Geoff,  he  laid  it  aside.  Family  altercations,  like 
family  jokes,  should  be  reserved  for  the  family,  though  no 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  95 

one  else  emulated  his  moderation.  He  wondered  whether 
the  servants  grew  as  weary  as  he  did  of  the  story  about 
the  cross-country  journey  from  Oxford  to  Winchester;  it 
was  dragged  up  at  his  expense  whenever  any  one  missed  a 
train — and  trains  were  missed  weekly.  Servants,  of  course, 
could  always  leave ;  they  always  did.  Perhaps  they  made 
bets  which  would  hear  the  Oxford-to-Winchester  story 
most  often  in  three  months ;  perhaps  they  met  in  sullen  con- 
spiracy and  pledged  themselves  to  decamp  in  a  body  the 
next  time  any  one  heard  it.  .  .  . 

That  tepid  bath  had  chilled  his  enjoyment  of  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,"  he  murmured,  stiffly  impenitent. 

Agnes  Waring  was  in  the  foreground,  talking  to  his 
father;  he  shook  hands  shyly  and  squeezed  past  her  to 
Nares,  the  apologetic,  ineffectual  vicar,  and  from  Nares  to 
Mrs.  Waring,  who  was  talking  to  a  young  officer  whom  she 
had  brought  over  with  her  party.  Colonel  Waring  stood  by 
the  fire,  retailing  safe  newspaper  opinions  on  the  war  and 
representing  to  Eric's  theatre-trained  eyes,  with  their  pas- 
sion for  "types,"  almost  too  perfect  a  picture  of  the  younger 
brother  who  had  passed  from  twenty  years  in  a  cavalry 
regiment  to  half-pay  retirement  and  a  certain  military  pre- 
tentiousness of  daily  life.  There  was  no  one  else.  Had 
their  lives  depended  on  it,  Lashmar  could  not  yield  another 
man  or  woman. 

"Entertaining  here  always  reminds  me  of  a  musical 
comedy,"  Eric  murmured  to  Sybil.  "Where  one  goes,  all 
go: 

"Oh,  we're  all  of  us  a-going  back  to  Lon-don, 
Over  ocean;  that's  the  notion  .  .  . 

"Song  and  dance.  Curtain.  Who's  the  fellow  in  uni- 
form?" 

"Mr.   Benyon.     A   friend  of  the   Warings,"   Sybil  an- 


96      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

swered.  "You're  not  going  to  be  patronizing,  are  you?" 
Eric  pulled  up  and  banished  the  ill-humour  induced  gen- 
erally by  the  sleepiness  of  the  country  and,  in  particular, 
by  that  tepid  bath-water.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the 
week-end,  he  proposed  to  enjoy  himself ;  there  was  no  need 
even  to  ask  where  he  had  been  placed  at  dinner.  Sybil,  at 
nineteen,  worshipped  every  word  and  movement  in  Agnes 
Waring  at  twenty-eight — her  way  of  laughing  and  speaking, 
her  phraseology,  her  mental  outlook;  every  opinion  was 

introduced  with  the  words,  "Agnes  says "    Two  years 

before,  when  the  infatuation  was  in  its  perfervid  youth, 
Sybil  had  made  up  her  mind  that  her  brother  was  to  marry 
Agnes;  the  determination  was  still  so  strong  that  she  was 
uneasy  at  the  presence  of  young  Benyon. 

Eric  had  no  strong  view  either  way;  Agnes  was  fair, 
slight  and  small-featured  with  observant  grey  eyes  and  a 
good  deal  of  detached  humour.  Since  the  incubation  of  his 
first  unsuccessful  play,  he  had  argued  out  every  character 
and  situation  with  her;  when  feminine  psychology  was  in 
dispute,  her  ruling  was  accepted  without  cavil.  More  than 
once,  as  they  splashed  conversationally  through  the  Lash- 
mar  woods,  he  had  felt  that  she  gave  even  a  self-sufficient 
bachelor  something  that  he  lacked  and  would  always  lack; 
and,  whenever  the  ubiquitous,  dry  celibacy  of  the  Thespian 
smoking-room  oppressed  him,  his  thoughts  drifted  to  Agnes 
Waring  and  a  doll's  house  somewhere  on  the  Eaton  estate, 
with  one  table,  two  chairs  and  an  avalanche  of  green  silk 
cushions  in  the  drawing-room.  .  .  .  He  was  not  in  love 
with  her;  but,  when  Sybil  telephoned  to  find  whether  he 
was  coming  to  the  country  for  the  week-end,  he  had  re- 
solved to  retouch  his  conception  of  Agnes.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  could  not  only  afford  to  marry ;  he  could 
regard  marriage  from  the  standpoint  of  an  eligible  bachelor. 
If  he  was  not  in  love  with  Agnes,  he  was  in  love  with 
love.  .  .  . 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  97 

Distant  voices  wakened  him  from  his  reverie,  and  he 
found  the  long,  low  white-and-gold  drawing-room  buzzing 
with  congratulations.  Benyon  had  been  to  the  "Divorce" 
three  nights  before;  old  Nares  rubbed  his  hands,  coughed 
and  described  a  proud  moment,  a  very  proud  moment,  when 
he  had  been  taken  behind  at  the  Lyceum  and  presented  to 
Sir  Henry  Irving.  There  followed  an  ingenuous  account 
of  his  make-up.  .  .  .  Eric  smiled  elastically,  stroking  his 
chin  and  letting  his  gaze  wander  round  the  white  panelled 
walls,  the  gilt  sofa  and  chairs  and  the  gold  and  white  over- 
mantel— ^the  coming  of  Dionysus  to  Europe  in  a  chariot 
drawn  by  lions.  He  realized  for  the  first  time  how  much 
he  hated  overmantels. 

Sybil  was  now  talking  to  Agnes,  but  she  withdrew  dis- 
creetly at  his  approach  and  gave  him  an  opportunity,  as 
they  went  in  to  dinner,  for  a  question  about  Jack. 

"We've  heard  nothing  since  the  August  report  that  he 
was  missing,"  said  Agnes.  "I'm  keeping  my  mind  a  blank. 
I  couldn't  build  all  sorts  of  wonderful  hopes  on  his  being  a 
prisoner  and  then,  perhaps,  have  to  go  through  the  whole 
thing  again.  .  .  .  Mother's  quite  certain,  of  course;  but 
then  mothers  are  like  that,  bless  them.  .  .  .  I'll  let  you 
know,  if  we  hear  any  news,  Eric." 

"Thanks  very  much.  By  the  way,  can  you  spare  me  one 
of  the  van  Laun  photographs  of  him  ?" 

Agnes  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  wrinkled  her  fore- 
head. 

"He  was  never  taken  by  van  Laun." 

"But  I've  seen  one." 

"Where?" 

"He  gave  one  to  Lady  Barbara  Neave.** 

Her  forehead  wrinkled  in  deeper  lines  of  perplexity. 

"I  didn't  know  he  even  knew  her.  .  .  .  He  never  men- 
tioned her  name;  I  suppose  he  thought  I  should  disap- 
prove." 


98      THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Eric  was  tempted  to  coax  an  opinion  of  Barbara;  but 
they  had  known  each  other  for  less  than  a  week,  and,  if 
he  went  round  collecting  the  judgements  of  all  who  had 
ever  heard  of  her,  no  one  would  believe  that  a  serene, 
professional  spirit  of  enquiry  prompted  his  curiosity. 
While  native  caution  kept  him  hesitating,  the  opportunity 
slipped  away;  Agnes  surrendered  to  the  boisterous  ad- 
vances of  GeoflF,  and  he  turned  to  find  Mrs.  Nares 
tentatively  conversational  on  his  left. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Eric  listened  with  one  ear  to 
the  parish  history  of  Lashmar.  Unknown  names  married 
and  begot  families;  unknown  names  sickened  and  died  or 
were  unexpectedly  revived  when  the  copiously  described 
symptoms  had  rendered  recovery  an  affront  to  the  imagina- 
tion; a  few  unknown  names  joined  the  army;  one  man  was 
a  prisoner,  another  wounded;  and  two  more  lastingly  dis- 
credited Lashmar  by  saying  that,  when  the  army  wanted 
them,  the  army  could  come  and  take  them.  Eric  was  in- 
formed that  he  would  hardly  know  the  dear  old  village 
now ;  he  felt  that  he  could  support  the  privation  with  forti- 
tude and  hoped  its  annals  might  be  closed  with  that  felici- 
tous generalization,  but  Mrs.  Nares  had  recollected  her 
husband's  gallant  attempt  to  be  accepted  as  a  chaplain  and 
the  Bishop's  gracefully  worded  inability  to  spare  him,  with 
a  postscript  in  his  own  writing  to  commend  such  spirit  in  a 
man  of  sixty-two  and  to  hold  him  up  as  an  example  to  his 
juniors. 

Eric  made  mental  notes  of  Mrs.  Nares  and  memorized 
some  of  her  more  engaging  mannerisms.  If  he  could  work 
her  up,  he  could  find  room  for  her;  but  he  must  also  find 
some  one  to  play  her  with  a  breathless,  unpunctuated 
patter;  Kitty  Walters  seemed  to  have  gone  to  America  for 
good,  but  Dorothy  Martlet  could  take  the  part.  .  .  .  The 
whole  dinner,  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  were  a  satire 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  99 

on  life  in  a  remote  country-house.  He  wondered  what  the 
party  at  Crawleigh  Abbey  was  like.  .  .  . 

An  unforeseen  question  rebuked  his  inattention.  Eric 
disposed  of  it  skilfully;  but  the  thread  of  thought  was 
snapped,  and  he  looked  round  the  table  to  see  what  had 
been  happening  since  his  reverie  began.  Agnes  had  been 
set  at  liberty  by  Geoff  and  was  watching  Eric  as  he  watched 
the  others.    Their  eyes  met,  and  both  smiled. 

"Conscription  between  your  father  and  Benyon  over 
Sybil's  body,"  he  murmured,  disentangling  the  conversa- 
tions. "Needlework  Guild  between  the  guv'nor  and  Mrs. 
Nares.  Poor  old  guv'nor.  ...  V.  A.  D.  training  between 
mother  and  the  vicar.  'Naval  Occasions'  between  your 
mother  and  Geoff.  D'you  ever  feel  you'd  like  to  stir  all  this 
up  with  a  pole,  Agnes?  We're  too  far  from  the  coast  for 
an  air-raid.  .  .  .  And,  if  you  had  one,  no  one  would  ever 
talk  about  anything  else  for  the  rest  of  his  life;  it  would  be 
like  the  Famine  in  Ireland  or  the  Wesley  descent  on  Corn- 
wall." A  maid,  squeezing  through  the  inadequate  fairway 
behind  the  chairs,  bumped  Eric's  back  and  made  him  spill 
his  wine.  "This  place  gets  on  my  nerves!"  he  added 
irritably. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  Agnes  looked  at  his  mobile, 
discontented  face  and  crumbled  her  bread  in  silence  for  a 
moment. 

"Don't  give  up  coming  here  altogether,"  she  pleaded. 

Eric  sipped  his  wine  thoughtfully  and  avoided  her  eyes. 
Here  was  an  opportunity,  had  he  cared  to  take  it,  for 
opening  up  a  greater  intimacy  with  Agnes;  but  his  mind 
was  unconcentrated  and  he  did  not  know  what  he  wanted. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  come  down  from  time  to  time,"  he 
answered  vaguely. 

"I've  been  so  looking  forward  to  hearing  about  all  you've 
been  doing.    We  don't  make  much  history  in  Lashmar." 

It  was  common  ground  between  them  that  the  Warings 


100    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

lacked  money  for  her  to  live  as  independently  as  all 
Warings  felt  that  every  Waring  had  a  right  to  live.  Each 
generation  of  younger  brothers  had  been  confined  within 
an  ever-narrowing  circle;  and,  but  for  the  war.  Jack  would 
now  be  patiently  going  the  North  Eastern  Circuit,  the  first 
Waring  to  apply  his  mind  to  law;  but  for  Jack  and  the 
money  spent  on  him  at  Oxford,  Agnes  would  have  gone  to 
Newnham  and  prepared  a  career  for  herself. 

"You're  too  good  for  this  place,  you're  wasted,"  Eric 
broke  out  after  a  moment's  silent  brooding. 

"There's  not  much  choice,  is  there?" 

Eric  brooded  again. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked. 

"Happier  than  you  are,  I  think,"  she  answered  with  a 
smile. 

"Why  on  earth  d'you  say  that  ?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"You  just  seem  changed  to-night,"  Agnes  replied. 
"Have  you  been  working  too  hard  ?" 

Over  his  port — which  would  not  stand  comparison  with 
any  from  the  artful  little  cellar  in  Ryder  Street — Eric  tried 
to  settle  in  his  mind  how  much  she  had  seen  and  how  much 
she  had  imagined.  There  was  assuredly  this  much  change 
in  him,  that  to-night  Agnes  was  not  even  waking  him  to 
dispassionate  interest;  he  had  no  attention  to  spare  her. 
And  yet  it  was  not  that  Barbara  had  captured  his  mind; 
she  was  nothing  but  an  elf  of  mischief,  dancing  in  the  sun- 
shine backwards  and  forwards  across  his  path,  pelting  him 
with  flowers,  vanishing  and  reappearing.  Restlessness  or 
discontent  must  have  peeped  from  behind  the  suave  mask. 
He  had  meant  to  be  more  friendly,  far  more  friendly ;  they 
had  not  met  for  nine  months ; — and  both  were  disappointed. 

In  the  drawing-room  Agnes  kept  her  chair  a  few  inches 
behind  the  circle  of  the  others,  watching,  listening  and 
reflecting.  Eric  seemed  to  think  that  he  was  still  at  one  of 
the  tiresome  long  parties  where  he  was  expected  to  glitter 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  loi 

and  to  be  shewn  off ;  he  had  talked  very  well  at  times,  but 
he  felt  that  he  had  been  making  voluble  conversation  in  a 
nervous  dread  of  silence  between  them.  His  new  life  was 
rather  turning  him  into  a  public  entertainer;  he  was  enig- 
matic and  unapproachable. 


As  Eric,  with  caution  born  of  experience,  lit  one  of  his 
own  cigars  and  made  room  for  Geoff  at  his  side,  an  idea 
came  to  him  so  seductive,  so  simple  and  so  compelling  that 
he  wondered  why  he  had  never  thought  of  it  before.  When 
Geoff  asked :  "Are  you  down  here  for  long,  or  are  you  go- 
ing back  on  Monday?"  Eric  answered  with  unsought 
inspiration : 

"I  shall  go  back  on  Sunday  night.*' 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  before  that,  by  this  facile 
course,  he  could  avoid  an  early  and  cold  drive  into  Win- 
chester, a  crowded  train,  a  free  fight  for  the  last  copy  of 
The  Times,  a  late  arrival  at  the  department  where  he 
composed  propaganda  for  neutral  consumption.  And  he 
had  never  felt  so  urgent  a  need  to  escape  from  the  Mill- 
House. 

"I  haven't  seen  your  jolly  old  play  yet,"  said  Geoff.  "I 
suppose  I  can  count  on  you  for  a  box?  If  you'll  give  us 
dinner  first,  I  might  collect  a  few  bright  lads  and  give  the 
thing  a  bit  of  a  fillip.  I  should  think  it  must  be  rather  a 
rag,  being  famous." 

"I  suppose  that  depends  on  your  definition  of  fame — and 
of  a  rag,"  Eric  answered. 

"Oh,  being  invited  everywhere,"  said  Geoff  unhesi- 
tatingly. "Having  your  photograph  in  all  the  papers.  Girls 
waiting  in  a  queue  for  your  autograph.  A  galaxy  of  beauty 
prostrating  itself  at  your  feet  to  get  an  extra  line." 


102    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"That  sounds  more  like  musical  comedy,"  said  Eric 
doubtfully.    "I  don't  fly  as  high  as  that." 

Geoff  was  too  young  to  have  outgrown  the  appeal  of  the 
stage.  He  regarded  Eric  with  as  much  admiration  as  one 
brother  accords  another  and  with  undisguised  envy. 

"I  did  enjoy  your  play,"  said  Benyon,  moving  into  a  chair 
by  his  side.  "Agnes  came  up  to  dine  with  me,  and  I  took 
her.  .  .  ." 

Eric  bowed  without  listening  to  the  end  of  the  sentence. 
He  was  mildly  surprised  to  find  Agnes  being  discussed  by 
her  Christian  name  and  wondered  why  he  had  not  heard  of 
Benyon  before.  Perhaps  it  was  her  fault  that  they  had 
established  no  spiritual  contact  at  dinner;  she  had  con- 
ceivably lost  interest  in  him,  and  he  wondered  whether  he 
was  sufficiently  interested  to  make  sure.  .  .  . 

"The  mater  told  me  you'd  another  thing  on  the  stocks," 
Geoff  went  on. 

"It's  being  produced  next  month,"  answered  Eric. 

He  looked  impatiently  round  the  cramped  dining-room, 
listening  for  a  moment  to  an  altercation  between  Waring 
and  Nares  on  the  Dardanelles  expedition.  It  was  surely 
worth  while  to  explore  Agnes  further  and  to  see  what  part 
in  her  life  this  young  Benyon  was  playing.  .  .  . 

Fortified  by  the  wise  decision  to  return  to  London  earlier 
than  he  had  first  intended,  Eric  entered  the  drawing-room 
full  of  toleration  and  good-humour.  Bending  over  Mrs. 
Nares'  sofa,  he  atoned  for  his  inattention  during  dinner 
with  thirty  seconds'  belated  sparkle  and  a  simple  epigram 
which  he  had  already  tried  with  effect  on  Mrs.  Shelley. 
They  were  joined  by  Mrs.  Waring,  and,  as  he  had  hardly 
spoken  to  her  all  the  evening,  he  consented  to  talk  about 
his  forthcoming  play — which  he  enjoyed  as  little  as  a  super- 
stitious mother  might  enjoy  describing  her  unborn  child — 
until  in  a  subsequent  regrouping  she  confided  to  Sybil  that 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  103 

she  was  very  much  attached  to  Eric ;  he  was  so  unspoiled, 
so  charming.  .  .  . 

"Aren't  you  rather  proud  of  him?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  He's  very  clever  and  he's  had  a  big  success,"  Sybil 
conceded  critically.  "But,  if  any  one  says  'Lane,'  the  whole 
world  thinks  of  Eric,  while  father,  who's  spent  his  life " 

She  was  interrupted  by  Mr.  Nares,  who  stationed  him- 
self at  her  elbow,  coughing  apologetically  until  she  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  asking  her  to  sing.  As  she  went 
to  the  piano,  Eric  moved  across  the  room  to  Agnes'  chair 
and  suggested  that  they  should  go  out  on  the  terrace. 

"It's  stifling  in  here,"  he  grumbled;  and,  after  a  q«ick 
sidelong  glance,  Agnes  followed  him. 

They  strolled  through  one  of  the  French  windows  to  a 
long  gravel  path,  which  ran  flush  with  the  inky,  slow-moving 
mill-stream.  Overhead  the  trees  stretched  across  the  nar- 
row ribbon  of  water,  brushing  the  back  of  the  house  and 
releasing  brittle  leaves  of  copper  and  dull  gold  to  undulate 
in  the  breeze  before  they  settled  on  the  surface  and  swept 
gently  over  the  creaking  wheel.  A  crescent  moon  was  re- 
flected unwaveringly  in  the  black  water,  and  the  autumn 
breeze  blew  a  scent  of  decaying,  damp  vegetation  from  the 
dense  woods  all  around  them. 

"Remember  when  we  used  to  have  races  with  paper 
boats,  Agnes?"  Eric  asked  suddenly. 

She  nodded,  wondering  why  he  had  reminded  her. 

"What  years  ago  it  seems!" 

"Only  about  five.  Though  we  were  both  old  enough  to 
know  better." 

"It  seems  longer,"  said  Agnes,  looking  at  h\n\  thought- 
fully and  wondering  whether  he  had  only  invited  her  out 
there  as  a  demonstration  against  Sybil  for  disparaging  him 
to  her  mother. 

"I  don't  feel  a  day  older." 

"You're  changed.    We  were  all  of  us  saying  that  before 


104    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

you  came  into  the  drawing-room  to-night.  Your  mother's 
rather  worried  about  you,  Eric." 

He  Hghted  a  cigarette  to  shew  the  steadiness  of  hand 
and  eyes. 

"She  needn't  bother,"  he  answered  easily,  "I'm  carrying 
a  good  deal  of  sail — but  I'm  better  than  I've  ever  been. 
Agnes,  I  don't  usually  talk  about  what  I'm  only  thinhing  of 
doing,  but  with  you  it's  different.  .  .  ." 

He  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  gravel  path  describing  his  conception  of  a  novel  as  it 
had  revealed  itself  to  him  a  week  before  when  he  was  at 
an  Albert  Hall  concert.  His  confidence  flattered  her  into 
disregarding  the  egotism  which  made  him  remember  her 
only  when  he  wanted  to  talk  about  himself;  she  forgot  the 
sensation  that  he  had  outgrown  her  as  much  as  he  had  out- 
grown the  paper-boat  races  on  the  mill-stream  by  their  side. 
Once  the  night  wind,  blowing  on  to  her  unprotected  shoul- 
ders, sent  a  shiver  through  her;  but  it  was  Eric  who 
coughed,  and  she  wondered  whether  he  knew  why  Lady 
Lane  always  looked  so  anxiously  at  his  sunken  cheeks  and 
starved  body.  She  wondered,  too,  whether  she  would  have 
cared  for  him  so  much  if  he  had  been  robust  and  tranquil 
as  Geoff. 

The  music  had  ended  long  before  he  had  done  talking; 
tentative  cries  of  "Agnes !"  passed  unheeded,  and  she  was 
only  recalled  to  the  present  by  the  appearance  of  Colonel 
Waring  in  overcoat  and  soft  hat  half-way  through  the  open 
window. 

"Bed-time,  Agnes,"  he  called  out,  sniffing  the  night  air. 
"If  you've  been  giving  that  girl  of  mine  a  chill,  Eric " 

"You're  not  cold,  are  you  ?"  Eric  asked  her. 

"Not  very,"  she  answered  with  a  tired  and  rather  disap- 
pointed smile. 

"Oh,  but  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  he  protested  in  a  con- 
vincing voice  of  concern,  as  he  led  her  back  into  the  house 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  105 

and  helped  her  into  her  cloak.  As  a  chorus  of  farewell 
rose  and  isolated  them,  he  lowered  his  voice.  "You'll  let 
me  know  when  you  have  any  news  of  Jack,  won't  you?" 

"///'  she  answered  wistfully. 

"You  mustn't  lose  heart.  I  expect  he's  all  right,  and 
there's  been  some  hitch  in  getting  the  news  through.  He's 
all  right,  Agnes." 

"I  hope  so." 

She  shook  hands  and  walked  despondently  into  the  night. 
Eric  seemed  to  have  become  artificial  in  the  last  few  months 
— just  when  he  might  have  helped  her  most.  He  lengthened 
his  face  and  lowered  his  voice  sympathetically,  but  he  was 
growing  into  a  social  puppet  and  losing  his  individuality. 
...  It  had  not  been  a  very  amusing  dinner. 

"Did  you  enjoy  yourself?"  Colonel  Waring  asked  her,  as 
they  settled  into  the  car. 

"Very  much,  thanks,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I'm  rather 
tired,  though." 

Benyon  told  her  that  Eric's  new  play  was  to  be  produced 
within  a  month  and  invited  her  to  come  with  him.  She  an- 
swered uncertainly  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

As  the  car  bumped  over  the  springy  turf  of  Lashmar 
Common,  Eric  stood  gazing  at  the  stars  and  drinking  in 
the  thousand  mingled  scents  and  sounds  of  the  night. 
Somewhere  hard  by,  a  bonfire  was  pungently  smouldering; 
there  was  a  sour  smell  where  a  flock  of  geese  had  been 
feeding  all  day ;  flaring  acridly  across  was  a  transitory  reek 
of  burnt  lubricating  oil,  and  the  hint  of  a  cigar  so  faint  that 
it  was  gone  before  he  could  be  sure  of  it.  .  .  .  The  lum- 
bering creak  of  the  mill-wheel  rose  assertively  above  the 
drone  and  plash  of  the  stream;  a  shiver  of  rain  and  a 
gentle  sigh  of  wind  in  the  top  branches  of  the  trees  behind 
him  were  suddenly  swallowed  by  the  hoot  of  an  owl. 

Eric  started — and  wondered  why  he  was  standing  there 
in  the  cold.     Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  stayed  to 


io6    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

be  by  himself  and  to  think  something  out.  There  was  a 
change  somewhere,  and  he  was  trying  to  locate  it.  He 
had  come  to  retouch  his  memory  of  Agnes,  and  he  had  seen 
her  alone  and  with  others ;  they  had  talked  the  conventional 
jargon  of  the  dinner-table,  their  fingers  had  brushed  emo- 
tion as  they  discussed  her  missing  brother,  and  for  half  an 
hour  they  had  marched  up  and  down  the  terrace  arm-in- 
arm, discussing  and  arguing  on  an  unwritten  book,  recap- 
turing an  old  intimacy  which  he  had  shared  with  no  one 
else.  In  the  light  of  the  drawing-room  Agnes'  grey  eyes 
were  black  and  mysterious;  her  lips  were  parted,  and  her 
cheeks  warmly  flushed ;  he  had  never  seen  her  look  prettier, 
he  had  never  been  more  attracted  by  her. 

The  change  must  be  in  himself ;  he  demanded  of  her 
something  more  volcanic  and  inspiring  than  she  could  five, 
something  to  feed  his  own  languid  vitality  instead  of 
placidly  laying  him  to  rest.  .  .  . 

Shutting  the  front  door,  he  went  back  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  the  family  was  assembled  to  compare  notes 
and  pool  information. 

"The  vicar's  starting  a  class  for  making  bandages.  .  .  ." 

"The  Warings  haven't  heard  anything  of  Jack  yet.  .  .  ." 

"That  Benyon  must  be  one  of  the  Herefordshire  lot,  I 
fancy.    An  old  private  bank.  .  .  ." 

Eric  hesitated  on  the  threshold,  looking  from  one  to 
another.  Sybil  was  undisguisedly  disappointed;  she  had 
so  desperately  set  her  heart  on  his  marrying  her  beloved 
Agnes,  and  the  night's  meeting  had  brought  them  no  nearer. 
Lady  Lane,  still  anxious,  beckoned  him  into  the  room  and 
took  his  face  between  her  hands,  turning  it  to  the  light  and 
kissing  his  eyes  again,  as  on  his  arrival. 

"You  look  tired,  Eric.  You'd  better  go  to  bed,  or  you'll 
never  be  down  to  breakfast." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  seriously  of  being  down  to  breakfast 
in  any  case,"  he  answered  with  a  yawn. 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  107 

"Oh,  don't  be  late.  It  makes  so  much  extra  work  for 
the  miaids,  if  they  have  to  serve  several  breakfasts  and  can't 
get  in  to  do  your  room." 

He  smothered  an  impatient  retort  and  strolled  to  a  table 
by  the  fire  where  Sybil  and  her  father  were  sipping  long 
tumblers  of  hot  milk,  while  Geoff  gulped  home-made  lemon- 
ade with  avid  enjoyment. 

"Any  whiskey?"  he  asked,  raking  the  tray  with  critical 
eye.  He  did  not  greatly  want  it  for  himself  or  at  that 
moment,  but  every  night  the  same  plea  had  to  be  preferred, 
there  was  the  same  hesitation  and  hint  of  inward  struggle, 
the  same  unspoken  protest,  as  though  the  shocked  stalwarts 
of  temperance  were  saying :  "You  can't  want  whiskey  after 
claret  and  port."  He  was  being  made  to  drink  for  con- 
science sake.  And  it  was  intolerable  that  Waring,  Benyon 
and  Nares  should  have  been  sent  into  the  night  without  a 
stirrup-cup. 

"It's  in  the  dining-room,"  said  Sybil,  walking  reproach- 
fully to  the  door. 

"Here!    All  right!    I'll  ring,"  Eric  cried. 

"The  servants  are  all  in  bed,"  she  answered.  "Or,  if 
they're  not,  they  ought  to  be." 

He  thanked  her  suitably  on  her  return,  but  one  dis- 
cordant, trifling  incident  coalesced  with  another,  the  tepid 
bath  with  the  whiskey  demonstration,  to  give  him  a  sense 
of  angular  discomfort.  In  a  few  hours  he  seemed  to  spend 
a  month's  nervous  energy  in  battling  for  things  that  were 
not  worth  winning.  The  whole  week-end  would  be  a 
failure.  .  .  . 

The  milk  tumblers  were  returned  to  their  tray ;  Sir 
Francis  filled  his  corn-cob  for  the  last  time ;  Geoff  ferreted 
curiously  among  a  pile  of  library  novels  in  one  corner,  and 
Lady  Lane  walked  softly  round  the  room,  testing  the  fas- 
tenings of  the  windows,  pushing  a  top-heavy  log  into 
security  and  turning  off  unnecessary  lights.    The  hall  clock. 


io8    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

striking  eleven,  seemed  to  rouse  and  inspire  them  with  a 
common  impulse. 

"Don't  bum  the  mid-night  oil  too  long,"  said  Lady  Lane, 
brushing  Eric's  forehead  with  her  lips. 

"I  simply  couldn't  sleep,  if  I  went  to  bed  now,"  he  told 
her.     "Good-night,  mother.     Good-night,  everybody." 

As  the  house  grew  silent  he  brought  in  his  despatch-box 
from  the  hall  and  began  to  read  through  the  skeleton  of 
a  novel  which  he  had  promised  himself  to  write  as  soon  as 
"The  Bomb-Shell"  was  safely  launched.  In  the  second 
week  of  the  war  he  had  spent  an  afternoon  in  a  recruiting 
office  with  men  of  all  ages  and  physiques,  pressing  forward 
for  enrolment.  Three  over-worked  doctors  pounded  and 
sounded  them,  prodding  them  on  to  a  weighing-machine, 
measuring  their  height  and  chest  expansion,  testing  their 
eyes.  Eric  had  tried  to  cheat  by  memorizing  the  order  of 
the  descending  black  capitals  while  he  lay  on  a  sofa  breath- 
ing freely  or  holding  his  breath  as  he  was  ordered ;  but  the 
chart  was  changed  before  his  turn  came.  When  he  had 
dressed,  the  examining  doctor  referred  him  to  a  row  of 
three  weary  clerks  at  a  baize-covered  table,  who  informed 
him  that  he  was  rejected.  The  folio  form  contained  a  com- 
ment— cardiac  something;  he  could  not  read  the  second 
word.  There  was  no  appeal,  and,  after  a  moment's  inde- 
cision, he  recognized  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
go  home. 

Outside  the  office  his  neighbour  in  the  queue  overtook 
and  hailed  him  with  the  words :    "What  luck  ?" 

"They've  spun  me,"  Eric  answered.  "There  was  just  a 
chance  that  I  might  slip  through  in  the  crowd.  .  .  .  What 
did  they  say  to  you?" 

"I  was  spim,  too,"  his  companion  answered.  Then  he 
laughed  uneasily  and  his  face  was  drawn  and  dazed  in  the 
August  sunshine.  "You  wouldn't  think  you  could  have 
much  the  matter  with  you  and  not  know  anything  about  it. 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  109 

I  always  thought  I  was  a  first-class  life;  I  haven't  had  a 
day's  illness  in  ten  years " 

"What  did  they  say?"  Eric  asked,  as  the  other  hesitated 
in  bewilderment. 

"They  give  me  anything  between  three  and  six  months," 
he  answered,  moistening  two  grey  lips.  "One  of  the  fel- 
lows .  .  .  took  me  on  one  side,  you  know  .  .  .  asked  me  a 
few  questions  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  and  waved  to  a  taxi 
which  was  rolling  lazily  down  Whitehall.  "I  must  go  and 
see  my  own  man.    Good-bye." 

"Good-bye !    Good  luck !"  Eric  cried. 

As  he  walked  home  he  wondered  how  much  composure 
he  would  shew  if  a  sentence  of  death  were  slapped  at  him 
like  an  overdue  bill.  He  wondered,  too,  what  he  would 
do  with  those  testing,  supreme  three  months,  if  they  were 
all  that  he  was  allowed.  Stoicism,  hedonism,  the  faith  of 
his  childhood,  new-fangled  mysticisms  would  join  hands 
and  hold  revel  round  his  soul  for  those  twelve  weeks,  those 
eighty-four  days,  those  two  thousand  and  sixteen  hours. 
.  .  .  The  speculation  fascinated  him  until  he  almost  fancied 
that  the  sentence  had  been  passed  on  him.  Gradually  he 
wove  a  drama  round  it ;  line  by  line  it  took  shape  for  a  book 
that  was  to  be  subtiler,  finer  and  more  sincere  than  anything 
that  he  had  ever  written.  If  only  he  could  find  time  for 
six  months'  uninterrupted  work!  London  had  to  be  not 
only  captured  but  held;  more  than  ever  before,  his  work 
was  the  one  thing  that  mattered.  .  .  . 

The  clock  in  the  library  struck  twelve,  and  he  tossed  the 
manuscript  skeleton  back  into  his  despatch-box.  His  mind 
was  vaguely  disturbed  with  a  sense  of  duty  undone,  until 
he  remembered  promising  to  tell  Barbara  if  he  heard  any 
news  of  Jack  Waring.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  writing 
to  her ;  but  in  fact  there  was  no  news,  he  would  have  only 
himself  to  blame  if  he  re-established  communications  with 
her  in  obedience  to  a  passing  whim.    She  was  at  Crawleigh, 


no    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

resting  and  building  up  her  strength ;  he  would  be  back  in 
full  harness  within  thirty-six  hours,  and  there  would  be  no 
room  for  her  madcap  incursions  into  his  life. 


The  house  was  very  silent  when  Eric  at  length  mustered 
resolution  to  go  to  bed.  The  fragrance  of  many  wood  fires 
warmed  the  passages  and  staircase  with  a  drowsy  scent; 
once  a  distant  window  rattled  tremulously  in  the  wind,  the 
hall  clock  gathered  itself  together  and  hesitated  before  strik- 
ing ;  all  else  was  deep-brooding  peace. 

He  turned  out  the  lights  and  mounted  to  his  room  on 
tip-toe.  There  was  a  fancied  sound  of  tranquil  breathing, 
as  he  paused  outside  each  door  in  the  long,  low  passage. 
He  at  least  was  awake;  his  highly-strung  new  restlessness 
would  not  accord  with  the  placidity  of  these  contented 
people.  Twenty-five  years  ago,  his  mother  had  fetched  him 
from  Broadstairs  for  his  first  Christmas  holidays;  and  he 
had  been  wonderfully  glad  to  see  her  and  to  be  home  again. 
So  it  had  been  every  holiday;  he  started  with  an  after- 
noon's preliminary  exploration,  flinging  open  doors,  sniffing 
the  familiar  scent  of  leather  bindings,  lavender  and  pine- 
logs,  critically  watchful  for  change.  Now  the  change  had 
come  in  himself;  Agnes  had  commented  on  it,  his  mother 
and  Sybil  had  noticed  it.  .  .  . 

His  bedroom  was  as  he  had  known  it  from  childhood ;  a 
hard  brass  bed,  white  painted  chest-of-drawers  and  wash- 
hand-stand,  threadbare  green  carpet,  flowered  and  fes- 
tooned pink-and-white  wall-paper.  (It  must  have  been 
renewed  in  twenty-five  years,  but  the  pattern  was  the  same.) 
There  was  an  oak-framed  "Light  of  the  World"  over  the 
bed,  supplemented  on  the  other  walls  with  progressive 
personal  records — eleven  podgy,  flannelled  little  boys  in 
quartered  chocolate-and-gold  caps,  guarded  and  patronized 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  iii 

by  a  flannelled  and  whiskered  master;  four  lean- faced, 
stem  young  school  prefects  in  gowns  and  white  ties;  two 
hundred  shivering  and  draggled  young  men  and  girls,  press- 
ing together  for  warmth  in  the  five  o'clock  chill  of  a  June 
morning  outside  the  Town  Hall  of  Oxford.  There  were 
two  shelves  of  calf-bound,  marbled  prize  books  between  the 
windows,  a  pair  of  limp,  battered  racquets  over  the  mantel- 
piece and  a  fumed-oak  shield  with  the  university  and  college 
arms  contiguously  inclined  like  the  hearts  of  two  lovers. 

Eric  shed  his  coat  and  waist-coat  on  the  bed,  lighted  a 
pipe  and  prowled  ruminatively  round  the  room.  Some- 
where in  the  shivering  ball-group  Jack  Waring  was  to  be 
found,  marked  out  by  the  blue  dress-coat  of  the  Bullingdon. 
Philpot  of  B.N.C.,  Trevor  of  the  House,  Loring  of  the 
House,  Crabtree  of  Magdalen,  Flint  of  Exeter — Eric 
turned  from  one  blue-coated  sign-post  to  another  until  he 
identified  Waring  with  a  crumpled  shirt  front  and  dis- 
ordered hair,  cross-legged  in  the  front  row.  It  was  a 
smiling,  vacuous,  uncharacteristic  photograph,  and  he  aban- 
doned it  for  a  bulky  album  stamped  with  his  initials. 

He  retreated  to  the  bed  and  sprawled  over  a  group  of 
the  "Mystics."  This  was  a  detached  and  scornful  club, 
exasperating  to  outsiders,  tiresome  to  its  members ;  Waring 
and  he  had  joined  it  at  the  same  time  and  taken  possession 
of  it ;  their  vague  home  intimacy  had  ripened  into  an  inter- 
ested friendship  as  they  strolled  back  to  college  from  the 
weekly  meetings,  once  more  refighting  the  frigidly  abstract 
battles  in  which  they  had  lately  engaged  from  the  depths 
of  arm-chairs  with  their  feet  on  the  table  and  piled  dessert- 
plates  in  their  laps.  Without  effort  or  desire  Waring  had 
set  a  fashion  and  founded  a  school  of  icy  fastidiousness. 
Within  the  limits  of  college  discipline,  which  he  scrupu- 
lously observed,  Waring  dissociated  himself  from  the  life 
and  conventions  of  the  college,  the  abbreviations  and  col- 
loquialisms of  Oxford  speech,  the  slovenly  mode  of  dress 


112    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

and  juvenility  of  mind.  His  serenity  floated  as  smoothly 
over  the  collective  ideas  and  standards  of  his  fellows  as 
over  intercollegiate  jealousies;  and,  as  he  left  the  college 
distantly  alone,  the  college  sought  him  out,  elected  him  to 
clubs  which  he  seldom  attended  and  to  banquets  which  he 
overlaid  with  baffling  and  frigid  aloofness. 

When  Waring  went  to  the  bar,  he  shared  chambers  with 
Eric  for  four  years  in  Pump  Court ;  and,  though  they  met 
at  most  for  an  hour  each  day,  there  resulted  an  intimacy 
which  neither  could  replace  when  Waring  moved  to  the 
greater  comfort  of  a  bedroom  at  the  County  Club.  For  two 
or  three  years  before  the  war  they  hardly  met;  Eric,  dis- 
appointed and  sore  from  want  of  recognition,  was  shutting 
himself  away  from  his  former  friends,  while  Waring  was 
gathering  together  a  practice  and  exploring  with  discrim- 
ination the  social  diversions  of  London.  The  war  hardly 
increased  the  distance  between  them,  and  it  was  only  when 
Jack  Waring  was  reported  to  be  "missing"  that  Eric  real- 
ized he  had  lost  his  best  and  oldest  friend. 

He  replaced  the  album  in  its  shelf  and  went  on  undress- 
ing. So  many  friends  had  already  been  killed  in  these  first 
fourteen  months  of  war  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  "sooner- 
or-later"  frame  of  mind  about  all.  Their  death  ceased  to 
surprise  and  no  longer  shocked  him  as  it  had  once  done. 
Until  the  war.  Jack  was  always  at  call.  Now,  when  the  war 
ended,  he  would  not  come  back.  .  .  .  Eric  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  clambered  into  bed.  The  Warings  were 
plucky  about  it,  because  every  day  the  suspense  must  be- 
come worse;  and  all  the  while  people  would  rush  up  and 
ask  for  news,  as  he  had  done  with  Agnes,  instead  of  leaving 
her  to  spread  the  news  as  soon  as  slie  had  any.  People 
thought  that  they  were  being  sympathetic  when  they  were 
simply  tearing  the  bandage  away  from  the  wound  to  gratify 
their  own  curiosity.  He  would  never  have  asked  the  ques- 
tion but  for  his  promise  to  Barbara.  .  .  . 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  113 

Why,  then,  was  he  not  letting  her  know  the  result?  He 
reached  for  his  despatch-box  and  settled  himself  comfort- 
ably against  the  pillows. 

"I  promised  to  see  if  I  could  get  any  news  of  our  friend 
Jack  Waring"  he  began,  then  hesitated  to  wonder  whether 
her  letters  reached  Barbara  uncensored  or  whether  sharp- 
eyed,  subdued  Lady  Crawleigh  would  ask  tonelessly, 
"Who's  your  letter  from,  Babs?"  Decorum,  he  decided, 
should  blossom  between  the  lines  and  shed  its  waxen  petals 
round  each  word.  .  .  .  "His  sister  was  dining  with  us  to- 
night, and  I  am  sorry  to  say  .  .  ."  "Did  you  know  him 
well?  He  was  one  of  my  greatest  friends  at  Oxford.  I 
remember  once  .  .  ." 

Eric  found  himself  fondly  stringing  together  anecdotes 
of  Jack  until  he  had  overshot  the  limits  of  a  single  sheet; 
it  seemed  but  a  moment  before  he  was  leaning  out  of  bed 
to  reach  a  third.  "You  must  forgive  me,  if  I  have  rather 
let  myself  go  about  him,"  he  ended.  "/  remember  the  £rst 
weeks  of  the  war,  when  I  had  a  nervous  breakdown.  His 
father's  place  is  about  two  miles  from  here,  and  he  used  to 
come  round  and  sit  with  me.  I've  only  to  shut  my  eyes  to 
see  him  standing  by  the  ^replace,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
mantel-piece  and  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  talking  to  me.  And 
I'd  give  a  great  deal  to  have  him  here  to-night. 

"But  I'm  afraid  I'm  occupying  an  unfair  proportion  of 
your  time  and  strength  at  a  season  when  you've  faithfully 
promised  to  take  care  of  yourself  and  to  have  a  proper  rest. 
I  hope  you  didn't  get  carried  beyond  Crawleigh  station; 
it's  been  rather  on  my  conscience  that  I  got  out  at  Win- 
chester instead  of  coming  on  with  you  the  whole  "way.  Are 
you  anmre  that  you  collapsed  from  sheer  exhaustion  almost 
before  we  were  out  of  Waterloo?  I  thought  you'd  fainted 
and,  as  you  have  my  only  flask  of  brandy,  I  had  a  bad  fright. 
Isn't  it  worth  while  to  take  a  little  care  of  yourself?  You're 
so  intolerably  vain  that  I  needn't  remind  you  that  you're 


114    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

very  young,  extraordinarily  lovely  at  times,  very  clever  and 
utterly  wasted.  However,  thafs  your  affair,  and  you're  not 
likely  to  be  much  impressed  by  any  advice  I  give  you,  nor 
am  I  much  impressed  by  my  right  to  give  you  advice.  If 
I  hear  any  news  of  Jack,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  let 
you  know.  Now,  good-night,  good-bye  and  a  speedy  re- 
covery." 

In  reading  through  his  letter,  Eric  could  not  help  feeling 
that,  where  he  had  sown  decorum,  a  certain  intimacy  had 
shot  up.  But  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  could  not 
bother  about  that. 


In  the  first  drowsy  moments  after  waking,  Eric  realized 
that  he  was  starting  at  a  disadvantage.  It  was  half-past 
ten.  He  had  therefore  missed  breakfast,  disorganized  tlie 
housemaids'  programme  for  the  day  and  made  himself  too 
late  to  accompany  his  mother  to  church. 

"I  seem  to  have  broken  all  the  rules  of  the  place  before 
getting  out  of  bed,"  he  told  himself,  as  he  rang  for  hot 
water. 

Then  he  laughed  as  he  recalled  an  old  "Punch"  drawing 
of  an  intoxicated  reveller  in  a  Tube  lift,  who  also  contrived 
simultaneously  to  break  all  the  rules  by  smoking,  by  not 
"standing  clear  of  the  gates"  and,  pre-eminently,  by  not 
being  beware  of  pickpockets.  The  laugh  put  him  in  good 
humour  and  reminded  him  that  good  humour  must  be  his 
sword  and  shield,  if  he  hoped  to  get  back  to  London  that 
night  without  a  struggle.  He  sauntered  in  search  of  his 
brother  with  a  razor  in  one  hand  and  a  shaving-brush  in  the 
other  to  ask  which  night  he  would  like  to  dine  and  have  his 
promised  box  at  the  Regency. 

When  he  entered  the  dining-room,  a  pencilled  note  in  a 
distantly  familiar  writing  was  lying  by  his  plate. 

"Now  you  MUST  admit  that  my  intelligence  department  is 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  115 

good,"  he  read  in  slanting,  irregular  strokes  which  hinted 
at  a  recumbent  position  and  a  writing-block  balanced 
against  the  knees.  "You  never  told  me  your  address.  I 
didn't  know  where  to  look  for  you  in  the  telephone  hook, 
you  were  utterly  lost.  Eric,  will  you  believe  me?  I  carried 
the  telephone  into  bed  with  me;  I  said,  'Trunks,  please,' 
and  Trunks  Please  said  'Honk!'  {Why  do  they  always  say 
'Honk'?  I  believe  they're  Masons,  or  else  they've  always 
just  woken  up.)  Well,  I  said  'Honk!'  too,  and  asked  for 
your  number  in  Ryder  Street;  and  then  /  found  out  your 
address  in  the  country.  Don't  you  think  it  was  rather 
clever  of  me?  And,  dear  Eric,  don't  you  think  it  was  very 
sweet  of  me?  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  something  I  ex- 
pect you're  quite  unconscious  of.  {What  a  sentence  to 
throw  at  the  head  of  a  rising  dramatist!)  I  mean  your 
gentleness  and  care  for  me  yesterday.  I  always  know  I'm 
so  safe  with  you,  Eric. 

"I'm  obeying  you  to  the  letter.  We've  got  rather  an 
amusing  party  here;  Gerry  Deganway  and  Sally  Farwell, 
my  cousin  Johnnie  Carstairs  {perhaps  one  pinch  too  much 
Foreign  Office),  Bobbie  Pentyre,  who's  on  his  last  leave 
before  going  out,  his  rather  tiresome  mother,  the  immacu- 
late George  Oakleigh.  .  .  ."  Her  pen  strayed  into  mis- 
chievous comments  and  absurd  stories  about  the  house- 
party.  "But  this  bores  you,"  she  broke  off  abruptly.  "I 
felt  all  this  week  as  if  I'd  been  sharing  everything  with  you 
so  extraordinarily.  But  no  one  shall  say  that  I  don't  know 
when  I'm  becoming  tedious!  What  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
Tvas  this;  and  I  was  led  astray  by  this  mob  of  people.  I've 
washed  my  hands  of  them!  I'm  in  bed — bed  at  7.15  post 
meridiem  {is  that  right?)  and  I'm  staying  here.  I'm  hon- 
estly resting.  But — {a  new  sheet  for  this) — I've  got  to  be 
*»  London  next  zveek — Thursday — for  a  happy  day  with  the 
dentist.  I  shall  be  all  alone,  the  house  will  be  shut  up  and 
everything  will  he  as  uncomfortable  and  depressing  as  it 


ii6    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

can  be.  Don't  you  think  it's  almost  a  duty  for  you  to  come 
and  dine?  I'll  have  the  dusting-sheets  in  my  room  lifted 
up,  and  we'll  crawl  underneath  them  and  eat  hard-boiled 
eggs  in  our  lingers  off  the  corner  of  the  table.  And  I'll  play 
to  you;  I  might  even  sing  to  you;  in  general  terms  I  shall 
be  very  sweet  to  you  and,  if  you  don't  come,  I  shall  know 
it's  because  you're  afraid  of  falling  in  love  with  me." 

Eric  smiled  to  himself,  as  he  pocketed  the  letter  and  pros- 
pected for  note-paper  and  an  unoccupied  table. 

"Your  picnic  dinner  sounds  most  attractive,"  he  wrote. 
"I  shall  be  delighted  to  come.  It  is  so  characteristic  of  you 
not  to  mention  a  time  that  I  hesitate  to  point  out  the  omis- 
sion. I  shall  come  at  8.0,  unless  you  tell  me  to  the  contrary. 
And  I  shall  insist  on  your  singing.  Good-bye.  Take  care 
of  yourself." 

He  tossed  the  letter  into  the  box  in  the  hall,  but  took  it 
out  again  immediately.  There  was  too  much  idle  curiosity 
in  the  house  already.  No  one  would  accept  his  picture  of 
Babs  as  he  saw  her;  assuredly  no  one  would  believe  his 
account  of  their  relationship,  if  he  were  in  a  mood  or  state 
to  give  it.  He  put  on  an  overcoat  and  walked,  with  the 
confirmed  Londoner's  shivering  hatred  of  the  country  in 
autumn,  to  the  tumble-down  shanty  which  did  duty  as  gen- 
eral store  and  post  office  to  the  hamlet  of  Lashmar. 

Once  nerved  to  face  the  wet  roads  and  penetrating  chill, 
Eric  decided  to  acquire  merit  by  walking  through  the  woods 
and  meeting  the  church  party  on  its  return.  Lady  Lane 
had  already  shewn  off  her  "sailor  son"  to  the  exiguous  con- 
gregation; it  was  the  turn  of  "my  eldest  son,  the  author, 
you  know,"  to  submit.  He  could  hear  all  about  Basil  and 
generally  popularize  himself  so  that  he  would  be  allowed  to 
leave  that  night  without  protest. 

His  mood  was  so  radiant  that  he  achieved  his  effect  be- 
fore the  end  of  luncheon.  As  Geoff  drove  him  to  the  sta- 
tion, he  almost  seemed  to  have  enjoyed  himself  and  to  be 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  117 

leaving  with  regret.  .  .  .  Winchester,  Basingstoke,  Vaux- 
hall,  the  river  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament  gave  him  suc- 
cessive thrills  of  pleasure,  as  though  he  had  been  away 
from  England  for  years.  Pride  of  possession  seized  him 
when  he  entered  Ryder  Street;  as  he  shut  the  front  door 
and  looked  at  his  black-framed  prints  and  lustre  bowls,  he 
felt  like  a  miser  locking  himself  within  his  treasure-house 
to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  signs  of  his  material  victory  over 
fate.  So  many  people  allowed  life  to  control  them  instead 
of  controlling  life.  And,  when  they  had  failed  through 
their  own  inertia,  they  invented  an  external  destiny  to  save 
their  faces.  Man  created  God  to  have  somewhere  to  put 
the  blame.  .  .  . 

There  was  an  average  pile  of  letters  on  his  library  table. 
Lady  Poynter  hoped  to  get  some  rather  amusing  people  to 
lunch  on  Thursday ;  could  he  bear  to  come  again  ?  So  sweet 
of  him,  if  he  would.  Mrs.  O'Rane  wrote  vaguely  of  a  party 
which  she  had  in  prospect,  without  apparently  knowing 
very  much  about  it:  "«  sort  of  house-warming.  I'm  not 
asking  you  to  meet  any  one  in  particular,  because  I  don't 
know  who'll  he  there.  If II  he  a  moh,  I  warn  you.  I'm 
inviting  my  friends,  my  husband's  inviting  his;  they'll  prob- 
ably quarrel,  and  there's  sure  not  to  be  room  for  all.  What- 
ever you  do,  have  a  good  dinner  before  you  come.  It 
doesn't  sound  attractive,  does  it?  But  these  things  are 
often  nothing  like  so  bad  as  one  fears  beforehand.  I  pro- 
pose to  enjoy  UYself." 

Eric  was  amused  by  her  candour  and  decided  to  look  in 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Lady  Maitland,  complaining  that  "Margaret  Poynter  al- 
ways ACCAPARER-j  my  nice  young  men,"  invited  him  to  shew 
his  loyalty  by  coming  to  dine  on  Friday.  "Bats  Neave  is 
coming,"  she  added. 

As  he  had  intended  to  spend  Sunday  evening  in  the  coun- 
try, he  was  absolved  from  all  work  and  could  give  undi- 


ii8    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

vided  attention  to  the  dinner  which  his  cook  had  improvised. 
(But  he  must  get  an  ice-safe  capable  of  holding  an  adequate 
week-end  supply.  Dinner  with  only  a  choice  of  sherry  and 
of  gin  and  bitters,  with  no  opportunity  for  a  cocktail  sug- 
gested "roughing  it"  to  his  mind.)  He  dined  with  a  book 
propped  against  its  silver  reading-stand  leisurely  and  warm 
after  his  bath,  comfortable  in  a  soft  shirt  and  wadded 
smoking  jacket. 

After  dinner  he  unlocked  a  branded  cedar-wood  cabinet, 
the  first  that  he  had  ever  bought,  and  looked  lovingly  at 
the  cigars,  rich,  dull-brown  and  ineffably  fragrant,  bundle 
pressed  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  bundle.  A  new  stock  of 
wine  had  still  to  be  entered  in  the  cellar-book ;  and  he  had 
to  find  places  on  his  shelves  for  Hatchard's  last  consign- 
ment. It  was  not  yet  easy  to  realize  that,  until  the  success 
of  his  play — six  thousand  pounds  sterling  in  eight  calendar 
months — a  new  book  had  been  an  event.  .  .  . 

For  a  happy  hour  he  arranged  and  rearranged.  At  the 
end,  surveying  his  handiwork  with  undisguised  pleasure, 
he  thought  of  the  bizarre  night  when  Babs  Neave  had 
forced  her  way  in.  He  could  still  hardly  believe  that  it  had 
occurred.  And  yet,  without  shutting  his  eyes,  he  could 
almost  see  the  child,  deadly  pale,  tired,  delighted  and  wholly 
unexplained,  bending  forward  with  her  wonderful  white 
arms  outstretched  to  catch  poor  Agnes  Waring's  horse-shoe 
paper-weight,  laughing  one  moment,  crying  the  next,  kissing 
him  the  moment  after.  And  how  she  seemed  to  be  in  love 
with  him.  .  .  . 

He  took  out  a  foot-rule  and  measured  the  space  under 
the  windows  for  two  possible  new  book-cases.  He  would 
need  them  soon ;  and  they  would  make  the  room  look  better 
filled.  It  was  a  beautiful  room,  a  beautiful  flat.  From 
every  point  of  view  he  was  leading  a  very  beautiful 
life.  .  .  . 

The  clock  struck  eleven;  and  his  parlour-maid  came  in 


LASHMAR  MILL-HOUSE  119 

with  a  syphon,  decanter  and  glasses.  He  did  not  drink 
whiskey  once  a  month,  but  the  tray  added  a  roundness  and 
finish  which  the  Spartans  at  Lashmar  Mill-House  were  in- 
capable of  appreciating.  Were  they  Spartans — or  simply 
people  without  his  instinct  for  life? 

He  filled  a  tumbler  with  soda-water  and  subsided  into  his 
deepest  arm-chair,  looking  lazily  round  the  room,  drawing 
pleasurably  at  his  cigar  and  wrapping  himself  in  the  softest 
down  of  contentment.  His  diary  was  within  reach,  and  he 
thought  over  his  abbreviated  week-end.  Agnes  Waring  had 
dropped  out  of  his  life;  Barbara  had  never  come  into  it. 
There  was  nothing  to  record  but  the  names  of  his  mother's 
guests  at  dinner.  .  .  . 


"There  are  few  things  so  exhausting  as  th€  quiet  of  the 
country." — From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


INTERMEZZO 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  being  born, 

Mother,  when  winds  were  at  ease 
As  a  flower  of  the  spring-time  of  corn, 

A  flower  of  the  foam  of  the  seas? 
For  bitter  thou  wast  from  thy  birth, 

Aphrodite,  a  mother  of  strife; 
For  before  thee  some  rest  was  on  earth 

A  little  respite  from  tears 

A  little  pleasure  of  life; 
For  life  was  not  then  as  thou  art. 

But  as  one  that  waxeth  in  years 
Sweet-spoken,  a  fruitful  wife; 

Earth  had  no  thorn,  and  desire 
No  sting,  neither  death  any  dart ; 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  amongst  these. 

Thou,  clothed  with  a  burning  fire, 
Thou,  girt  with  sorrow  of  heart, 

Thou  sprung  of  the  seed  of  the  seas 
As  an  ear  from  a  seed  of  corn 

As  a  brand  plucked  forth  of  a  pyre, 
As  a  ray  shed  forth  of  the  moon 

For  division  of  soul  and  disease. 
For  a  dart  and  a  sting  and  a  thorn? 
What  ailed  thee  then  to  be  born? 

Swinburne:    "Atalanta  in  Calydon.' 


Moral  delinquency  in  England,  if  of  sufficiently  ancienf 
lineage,  grows  venial  with  the  years  and,  if  carried  out  with 
adequate  ruthlessness  or  at  least  success,  may  quickly  find 
itself  invested  with  grandeur.  No  one  boasts  of  his  own 
illegitimacy,  but  most  men  like  it  to  be  known  that  an 
ancestress,  whose  memory  is  kept  green,  once  enjoyed  royal 
favour.    No  man  tells  his  guests  that  they  are  eating  stolen 

120 


INTERMEZZO  121 

food  from  stolen  plate  in  a  stolen  house;  but  many  will 
admit,  without  imposing  a  bond  of  secrecy,  that  their  great- 
great-grandfathers  went  to  India  to  seek  their  fortune  and 
apparently  found  it.  "He  that  goes  out  an  insignificant  boy 
in  a  few  years  returns  a  great  Nabob,"  said  Burke,  without 
dwelling  on  the  intermediate  stages.  They  will  admit 
almost  as  readily  that  their  grandfather  reluctantly  parted 
with  land  to  the  end  that  railways  might  be  built,  or  that 
their  fathers  ran  the  blockade  and  supplied  the  South  and 
the  slave-owners,  hazardously  and  romantically,  with  mu- 
nitions of  war. 

The  Neave  fortunes  had  their  origin  in  the  character  and 
position  of  Lord  Chancellor  Crawleigh;  and  history  has 
dealt  faithfully  with  him.  John,  first  baron,  acquired  the 
Abbey  from  a  misguided  supporter  of  the  '15  and  left  it 
with  sufficient  means  for  its  upkeep  to  his  grandson  Wil- 
liam, the  second  baron  and  first  viscount,  who  built  on  sure 
foundations.  Common  sense  and  a  certain  practical  alert- 
ness in  the  halcyon  days  of  the  Enclosure  Acts  did  nothing 
to  diminish  the  patrimony  of  Charles,  fourth  baron,  third 
viscount  and  first  earl,  though  the  estate  came  to  be  tem- 
porarily encumbered  when  the  good  fellowship  of  John,  the 
second  earl,  won  him  the  costly  regard  of  the  Regent.  At 
a  time  when  the  House  of  Commons  was  pulling  one  of  its 
long  faces  over  a  periodical  schedule  of  the  Prince's  debts, 
a  Garter  became  vacant ;  and  His  Royal  Highness,  with  no 
other  means  of  marking  his  affectionate  gratitude,  secured 
it  for  his  friend  with  a  further  step  to  the  coveted  rank  of 
marquess.  Thereafter  the  public  life  of  the  family  was 
characterized  by  honour  and  integrity;  and  the  Garter,  re- 
bestowed  as  soon  as  surrendered,  became  a  habit.  The 
second  marquess  held  a  sinecure  under  Lord  Aberdeen; 
another  flitted  to  and  fro  in  shadowy  retirement  as  a  Lord- 
in-Waiting;  a  third,  exploring  the  United  States  for  the 
broadening  of  his  mind,  married  an  American  wife. 


122    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

The  union  infused  so  much  new  blood  into  the  declining, 
short-lived  stock  that  there  seemed  no  limit  to  the  energy 
and  success  of  the  heir.  Charles,  fifth  marquess,  was  a 
member  of  parliament  in  his  twenty-second  year,  an  under- 
secretary when  he  was  twenty-six  and  Governor-General  of 
Canada  before  he  was  thirty-five.  Thereafter,  having  got 
him  abroad,  succeeding  governments  vied  with  one  another 
to  keep  him  abroad.  The  vice-royalty  of  India  followed 
almost  automatically;  he  spent  two  years  as  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant of  Ireland  to  oblige  his  party  leaders  and  was  now  in 
the  full  vigour  of  middle  age  with  nothing  to  do.  The 
House  of  Lords  offered  no  opportunity  to  an  incurably  bad 
debater;  and  the  radicals  by  destroying  the  constitution, 
bullying  the  king  and  playing  with  revolution  had  made  it 
a  place  of  arid  pomp,  whose  futility  took  away  something 
of  a  man's  dignity  every  time  that  he  went  there.  Never- 
theless, once  a  viceroy,  always  a  viceroy,  as  his  daughter 
sometimes  reminded  him.  Lord  Crawleigh  ruled  Berkeley 
Square  and  Crawleigh  Abbey  as  though  he  were  still  in 
India,  as  though,  too,  he  were  suppressing  the  Mutiny 
single-handed.  "Once  a  mutineer,  always  a  mutineer," 
Lady  Barbara  would  occasionally  say  of  herself. 

This  week-end  she  had  irritated  her  parents  by  choosing 
a  train  convenient  neither  to  family  nor  guests,  by  arriving 
speechless  with  fatigue  and  by  retiring  to  her  bedroom  and 
announcing  that  she  would  probably  stay  there.  Lady 
Crawleigh  felt  that  prudence,  after  so  long  delay,  might 
have  timed  its  coming  more  opportunely;  a  houseful  of 
young  people  could  be  trusted,  in  dealing  with  her  sentences, 
to  complete  the  ruin  which  her  husband  had  begun;  but 
late  hours,  excitement  and  the  legacy  of  her  illness  had 
reduced  Barbara's  strength  until  Dr.  Gaisford  pronounced 
that  he  could  not  answer  for  the  result  if  any  pressure  were 
put  upon  her. 

Though  the  windov/s  were  now  thickly  curtained  and  a 


INTERMEZZO  123 

bright  fire  was  burning,  Barbara  could  never  come  into 
her  bedroom  without  a  shiver.  In  the  spring  and  summer 
of  191 5,  when  Crawleigh  Abbey  was  a  military  hospital, 
she  had  worked  by  night  and  lain  awake  by  day,  deliberately 
and  with  the  sun  shining  on  her  face,  for  fear  of  dreaming. 
Madness  or  death  could  be  no  worse  than  the  torture  of 
being  pitilessly  and  unceasingly  watched  when  she  knew 
that  she  was  only  dreaming  but  could  not  wake.  Of  late 
the  form  of  her  dreams  had  changed,  growing  less  defined ; 
there  was  no  longer  the  old  accusing  pair  of  eyes  to  re- 
proach and  spy  on  her  as  soon  as  the  room  was  in  darkness, 
but  she  was  conscious  of  vague  presences  which  she  could 
not  clearly  see.  After  fainting  in  the  train  a  month  before, 
she  had  heard  Eric's  voice  in  her  sleep,  though  she  could 
not  recognize  a  face  which  she  had  never  seen ;  none  of  her 
dream-faces  had  features.  There  was  a  shadow  somewhere 
in  all  her  visions  of  Eric;  some  day  she  feared  that  the 
shadow  would  take  form,  the  eyes  would  return  to  watch 
her.  .  .  . 

The  fire  was  so  bright  that  the  room  grew  no  darker 
when  she  turned  off  the  light;  and,  though  she  placed  a 
coloured  handkerchief  over  her  eyes,  it  gave  her  no  protec- 
tion. When  she  pulled  it  impatiently  away,  the  glare  was 
so  fierce  that  she  could  not  see  the  familiar  bookcases  and 
chairs.  Gradually  the  whole  room  was  enveloped  in  a  sheet 
of  flame,  and  in  the  midst  she  saw  a  gigantic  figure  on  a 
throne. 

"God,"  she  whispered — and  knew  that  she  was  dead  and 
had  come  to  be  judged. 

The  throne  was  familiar  from  an  old  picture  in  Siena; 
God  was  the  Ancient  of  Days,  drawn  by  Blake  for  the 
Book  of  Job.  Strange  that,  after  all,  these  stories  were 
true.  .  .  .  She  wondered  why  He  was  old  or,  being  old, 
why  He  was  no  older.  .  .  .  The  white  flame  beat  merci- 


124    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

lessly  upon  her  eyes,  and  she  could  see  that  they  were  alone 
in  Space. 

God  was  waiting  for  her  to  confess.  .  .  . 

It  was  idle  to  confess  when  God  was  omniscient,  and  she 
kept  her  lips  obstinately  closed. 

But  God  and  she  were  alone  in  Time.  He  had  sat  for 
an  eternity  before  she  came  to  the  judgement-seat;  He 
would  wait  for  an  eternity  and  condemn  her  for  an  eter- 
nity. .  .  . 

"Vanity.  ...  I  suppose  that's  what  you  want  me  to 
say."  She  wondered  whether  her  voice  would  carry  through 
Space ;  she  was  no  bigger  than  God's  right  hand  .  .  .  alone 
.  .  .  and  naked.  "I've  always  been  spoiled,  and  that  makes 
any  one  vain.     Some  allowance  .  .  ." 

It  was  idle  to  excuse  herself  when  God  was  omniscient. 

"I  didn't  realize  what  I  was  doing."  (God  must  know 
that  she  was  speaking  the  truth  now.)  "He  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  hurting  me — quite  unfairly;  I've  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of  before  I  met  him.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
shew  him  I  wasn't  quite  as  bad  as  he  thought.  He  .  .  . 
fell  in  love  with  me  and  wanted  to  marry  me.  ...  I  was 
taken  by  surprise  .  .  .  mad.  ...  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
saying,  I  told  him  I  couldn't  marry  any  one  who  wasn't  a 
Catholic.  ..." 

Catholic  .  .  . 

Barbara  stopped  short  to  wonder  what  God  must  think 
of  all  the  jarring  sects  which  laid  claim  to  His  exclusive 
revelation.  The  Ancient  of  Days,  God  the  Father,  Jehovah, 
Allah.  ,  .  .  She  had  always  wondered  what  He  would 
make  of  His  fratricidal  followers.  Catholic,  Protestant, 
Orthodox.  .  .  .  What  must  Christ  make  of  the  bitter  fa- 
natics who  swam  through  blood  to  a  world  of  universal 
love? 

She  had  lost  her  way  in  the  confession ;  and  God  brooded 
in  silence  over  Space  and  Time,  ignoring  her,  forgetting 


INTERMEZZO  125 

her.  She  sank  to  the  ground,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  wondering  when  she  had  died.  Perhaps  God  had 
waited  until  Jack  Waring  was  killed,  so  that  he  might 
testify  against  her.  .  .  . 

"I  know  it  was  a  lie,"  she  broke  out  suddenly,  "but  I 
didn't  realize  what  I  was  doing.  The  next  thing  ...  Is 
this  Hell  ?  I  always  felt  I  was  going  through  Hell  on  earth. 
That  night  ...  I  didn't  see  or  hear  from  Jack  for  three 
months ;  I  thought  he'd  given  me  up.  I  was  happy  for  the 
first  time  since  I'd  met  him.  Then  he  followed  me  into 
the  country  and  asked  me  again  if  I'd  marry  him.  He  said 
he  was  a  Catholic  now.  He'd  believed  me,  he'd  done  this 
for  me,  perjured  himself.  ...  I  remember  saying  to  my- 
self "If  there  is  a  God  ..."  I  didn't  know.  .  .  .  "If  he 
has  a  soul  to  lose.  ..."  I  couldn't  undo  it.  I  did  what  I 
could  for  him,  I  wrote  and  said  I'd  marry  him,  I  swore  it 
by  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  .  .  .  He  went  out  to  the  war,  he 
never  answered ;  he's  killed  now.  ...  I  don't  know  what 
you're  going  to  do  with  me.  I've  been  punished.  It  can't 
be  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  send  me  out  of  my  mind. 
For  a  year  I've  been  tortured.  Now  I  was  just  beginning 
to  forget  and  to  be  happy.  I  suppose  you  want  to  take 
that  away.  ...  I  didn't  realize.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  I  be 
happy  ?" 

The  dim  figure  on  the  throne  made  no  answer,  and  Bar- 
bara began  to  crawl  forward.  Perhaps  God  had  not  heard. 
.  .  .  But  she  would  spend  years  crawling  through 
Space.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  get  it  over.  No  punishment's  as  bad  as  this 
suspense.  You  know  that.  .  .  .  Won't  you  tell  me  what 
I'm  to  do  .  .  .?" 

She  crawled  forward  again,  though  her  knees  were  ach- 
ing. Above  her  loomed  God's  foot-stool;  and  she  touched 
it  reverently,  then  beat  upon  it  furiously  in  the  hope  that 
God  might  rise  and  kill  her  again  .  .  .  for  ever.  .  .  .  The 


126    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

sheet  of  flame  marched  nearer  until  it  scorched  her  eyes. 
Space  and  Time  shrank  and  were  consumed  until  she  found 
herself  kneeling  upright,  staring  wildly  at  the  fire  and 
beating  with  open  palms  on  the  wooden  end  of  the  bed. 

Barbara  fell  backwards,  pulling  the  clothes  up  to  her 
chin. 

"Another  second  .  .  .  and  I  should  have  gone  mad,"  she 
whispered. 

Downstairs  some  one  had  thrown  open  a  window,  some 
one  was  playing  a  piano.  She  turned  on  the  light  and  rang 
for  her  maid. 

"I  shall  get  up  for  dinner  after  all,"  she  said.  "I  mean, 
I  shan't.  ...  I  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  What 
— I  mean — is :  I  shall  get  out  of  bed  for  dinner,  but  I 
shan't  go  down.     That's  clear,  isn't  it?    What's  the  time?" 

"Eight  o'clock,  my  lady." 

Then  her  dream  had  lasted  less  than  five  minutes.  .  .  . 

"I'm  going  to  sleep.  I  shan't  want  any  dinner.  Will 
you  bring  the  telephone  in  here  ?" 

The  maid  left  the  room  in  bewilderment  at  the  con- 
flicting orders  and  sought  counsel  of  the  housekeeper.  Ten 
minutes  later  Lady  Crawleigh  came  in  to  find  Barbara  in 
bed  with  the  telephone  tucked  under  one  arm  and  the  re- 
ceiver to  her  ear.  She  finished  some  request  for  an  ad- 
dress, nodded  as  the  answer  was  given  and  lifted  the  in- 
strument to  a  table  by  her  side. 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  seem  to  have  given  poor  Merton 
a  fright,"  said  Lady  Crawleigh.    "Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I  never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  answered  Barbara. 

"Are  you  coming  down  to  dinner?" 

"I  don't  think  I'm  well  enough  for  that.  .  .  .  You  can 
get  on  without  me.  If  things  seem  to  hang  fire,  get  Gerry 
Deganway  to  give  imitations  of  His  Excellency." 

Lady  Crawleigh  bridled  at  the  suggestion. 


INTERMEZZO  127 

"That's  not  at  all  a  respectful  way  to  speak  of  your 
father,"  she  observed  reprovingly. 

"Well,  His  ex-Excellency,  then.  That  no  better?  Sorry. 
He's  very  amusing — Gerry,  I  mean.  Why  not  get  father  to 
give  imitations  of  Gerry?  In  its  way,  that  ought  to  be 
just  as  funny." 

Her  mother  advanced  reproachfully  to  the  bed  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  rail. 

"//  you're  not  feeling  well,"  she  said  with  incontrover- 
tible logic,  "you  ought  to  go  to  sleep  instead  of  telephoning 
to  people  and  writing  to  people.  If  you're  all  right,  you 
ought  to  help  with  these  tiresome  creatures.  They're  your 
guests." 

Barbara  felt  her  own  pulse  and  sighed. 

"I'm  well  enough  to  write  one  letter,"  she  said,  "and 
perhaps  to  get  up  in  time  for  lunch  to-morrow." 

Then  she  hunted  among  the  pillows  for  a  pencil  and  ad- 
dressed an  envelope  to  "Eric  Lane  Esq^',  Lashmar  Mill- 
House,  Lashmar,  Near  Winchester,  Hants." 

She  was  already  tired;  perhaps,  if  she  could  fix  her 
thoughts  on  Eric  until  she  fell  asleep,  she  would  be  spared 
a  second  vision  of  judgement.  A  dressing-gong  sounded  in 
the  distance,  and  she  debated  whether  to  abandon  her  let- 
ter to  Eric  and  go  down.  Gerald  Deganway  would  be 
simperingly  sympathetic.  "Your  mother  tells  me  you're 
not  feeling  very  grand"  (odious  phrase).  "Poor  you!" 
(Damnable  phrase,  damnable  creature — with  his  insecure 
eye-glass  and  plastered  flaxen  hair!)  Johnny  Carstairs 
would  be  pontifical  and  pretentious — "The  unhappy  Foreign 
Office  comes  in  for  all  the  kicks.  There's  a  body  of  three- 
pound-a-week  gentlemen  in  Fleet  Street  who'd  enforce  a 
real  blockade,  'leave  it  to  the  Navy,'  don't  you  know,  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  I'm  aware  of  them;  I  sometimes  wish 
I  could  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  them.  .  .  ."  By 
staying  in  bed  she  was  at  least  keeping  the  promise  that 


128    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

she  had  given  to  Eric;  the  sense  of  surrender  was  a  novel 
experiment  in  emotion. 

She  finished  the  letter  and  switched  off  the  light.  Dark- 
ness was  not  going  to  usher  in  faces  to-night.  Her  soul  felt 
healed. 

"You  absurd  darling  child !" 

She  whispered  the  words  aloud  and  felt  warm  tears  over- 
brimming her  eyes.  She  loved  him  for  his  extraordinary 
callow  youth — which  had  carried  the  chaste  chivalry  of 
sixteen  to  the  age  of  twice  sixteen;  she  loved  his  little 
occasional  tender  gleams  of  womanliness.  .  .  .  And  he  was 
so  easy  to  mystify  and  tease.  She  felt  the  warmth  and  the 
taut  muscles  of  his  arm  round  her  body  as  he  led  her  home 
across  St.  James'  Park,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  sleep- 
ing, secure  and  forgetful. 

"Dear  Eric,  I  wish  you  were  here  now!"  she  murmured. 

Lord  Crawleigh,  indignant  that  Barbara  should  desert 
her  own  party  the  first  night,  but  vaguely  disquieted  that 
she  was  ill  enough  to  go  to  bed  of  her  own  volition,  peeped 
into  her  room  on  his  way  down  to  dinner.  There  was  no 
answer  to  his  jerky,  sharp  call  of  "Barbara"  and  he  turned 
on  the  light.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  she  was  smiling; 
he  walked  to  the  bed  to  make  certain  that  she  was  not  try- 
ing any  of  her  tricks  on  him. 

"Barbara!" 

"Yes,  darhng?" 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  their  drowsy  contentment  faded 
ajvay. 

"I  only  came  to  see  if  you  were  asleep." 

"I'm  not — now,"  she  answered  wistfully. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  get  some  decent  sleep  ?  You  racket 
about  and  overtax  your  strength  and  excite  yourself.  .  .  . 
And  this  is  the  result!" 

"I'll  do  my  best,  father." 

As  he  creaked  out  of  the  room,  she  shut  her  eyes  tight 


INTERMEZZO  129 

and  tried  in  despair  to  woo  herself  back  to  the  moment 
of  half-consciousness  when  Eric  drew  her  cloak  across  her 
chest  and  she  roused  to  ask  him  sleepily  "Am  I  coming  un- 
dressed ?" 


Barbara  rang  for  tea  at  noon  and  came  down  to  luncheon 
in  a  house  which  was  gratifyingly  demoralized  by  her  ab- 
sence. Her  father  had  spent  Sunday  morning  in  his  study, 
writing  letters;  her  mother  had  carried  the  more  devout 
members  of  the  party  to  mass  and  from  mass  to  a  vague, 
bored  exploration  of  the  garden,  where  they  could  be  seen 
scattered  on  the  lowest  terrace,  trying  to  make  friends  with 
an  unresponsive  peacock;  the  men,  headed  by  Pentyre, 
were  warmly  entrenched  round  the  smoking-room  fire  in  a 
blue  tobacco-haze  and  a  litter  of  Sunday  papers.  George 
Oakleigh,  in  naval  uniform,  was  unashamedly  sleeping  in 
a  deep  window-embrasure,  his  mouth  open  and  his  eye- 
glasses on  his  knees.  Deganway  and  Carstairs  were  arguing 
in  subdued  tones  and  seemed  as  vacantly  uninterested  as 
Pentyre,  who  had  exhausted  the  feuilleton  of  his  paper 
and  was  studying  the  advertisements. 

She  was  pleased  by  the  stir  with  which  her  entrance  gal- 
vanized them  into  alertness,  by  Oakleigh's  sympathetic  en- 
quiries, even  by  Deganway's  critical  examination  of  her 
dress. 

"Well,  make  the  most  of  me,  everybody,"  she  said. 
"I'm  going  back  to  bed  immediately  after  lunch.  What's 
everybody  doing?" 

"I've  been  asleep,"  Oakleigh  answered  contentedly. 

Barbara  looked  round  her  and  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  pursued. 

"I  should  like  to  go  on  sleeping.  .  .  ." 


130    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Come  for  a  walk,  Babs,"  interrupted  Pentyre.  "It's  my 
last  leave " 

"Then  you'd  better  rest  instead  of  working  on  my  emo- 
tions. George,  on  the  other  hand,  never  gets  any  exercise 
at  the  Admiralty,  and,  as  he's  never  been  here  before,  I 
think  I  shall  take  him  round  the  house.  Besides,  he  hasn't 
asked  me  to  do  anything.    Come  on,  George !" 

Oakleigh  rose  with  sufficient  alacrity  and  accompanied 
her  for  an  hour  through  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey,  the  Eliza- 
bethan reconstruction  and  the  Georgian  incrustation. 
Knowing  Barbara,  he  had  secured  what  he  wanted  by  pre- 
tended indifference,  though  he  was  less  interested  in  hall 
and  refectory,  Prior's  house  and  dormitory  than  in  her 
knowledge  of  architecture  and  early  English  furniture. 

"Another  of  my  accomplishments,"  she  laughed. 
"George,  what  sort  of  reputation  have  I  got?  A  man  was 
so  surprised  the  other  day  to  find  that  I  could  play  the 
piano  and  sing.  .  .  ." 

"I  know  what  /  think  of  you,"  he  answered.  "Possibly 
you  know  it  too." 

Barbara  looked  away  abstractedly,  as  though  she  had 
not  heard  him.  Ever  since  her  illness,  George  had  shewn 
her  a  tender  devotion;  and,  when  Sonia  Dainton  and  her 
other  friends  had  succumbed  to  the  war-epidemic  of  mar- 
riage, she  had  fancied  that  it  would  be  very  restful  to  marry 
him.  The  mood  lasted  for  a  week,  and  it  was  in  this  time 
that  she  had  invited  him  to  the  Abbey.  Then  a  dream,  of 
which  she  could  remember  few  details,  had  shattered  the 
lazy  romance  which  she  was  weaving;  there  was  a  shadow 
which  she  knew  would  take  form  as  Jack  Waring,  there 
was  a  hint  of  the  wild  oath  which  she  had  taken  when  she 
was  mad;  and  she  had  decided  that  God  was  punishing 
her  by  opening  her  eyes  to  happiness  and  then  throwing 
a  bar  of  shadow  across  her  path  as  she  struggled  to  reach 
it.     Those  were  the  days  when  she  heard  that  Jack  was 


INTERMEZZO  131 

missing,  the  nights  when  she  prayed  to  hear  that  he  was 
dead.  Now  that  George  was  at  hand,  she  did  not  want 
him ;  she  might  find  peace  by  marrying  him,  but  she  would 
find  nothing  more.  ... 

"Dear  George!     You  think  I'm  perfect,  don't  you?" 

"Perfection  is  meant  to  be  more  admired  than  loved." 

"I've  nothing  but  my  imperfections  to  make  people 
love  me." 

"That's  a  woman's  way  of  marrying  on  her  debts.  .  .  . 
You're  better,  Babs,  than  when  I  came  to  see  you  in  Lon- 
don.   I  hope  you're — happier." 

"Ah,  if  only  I  could  undo.  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off,  and  George  looked  at  her  cautiously  to  see 
whether  she  was  trying  him  with  the  pose  of  conscience- 
stricken  penitent,  already  a  little  out-moded  after  fourteen 
months  of  war. 

"You  certainly  had  your  share  of  scrapes,  but  there  was 
nothing  discreditable  in  them.    Too  much  vitality " 

She  spread  out  her  hands,  white  and  transparent  in  the 
sun-light. 

"I'd  done  everything  else!  Being  with  father  every- 
where. .  .  .  And  I  was  driven  into  it  by  opposition.  I 
must  have  been  a  mule  in  a  previous  incarnation.  D'you 
know,  if  father  says  he's  coming  here  by  the  4.10,  I  have 
to  come  by  the  5.40,  however  inconvenient  it  may  be  to 
everybody — just  to  assert  myself?" 

"But  that  wasn't  the  only  reason,"  George  suggested. 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

She  had  ceased  to  smile,  and  two  faint  lines  of  annoyance 
were  visible  between  her  eye-brows. 

"I'm  sorry.  It  was  no  business  of  mine,"  said  George 
apologetically. 

"I  don't  mind  you.  But  it  was  no  business  of  the  Degan- 
way  creature.    Can't  you  break  his  eye-glass  or  cut  a  piece 


132    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

off  the  end  of  his  nose,  George?  Did  he  tell  you  who  I 
came  down  with?" 

"Deganway  is  always  thorough  in  his  investigations.  I'm 
sorry  I  mentioned  it ;  I  was  only  teasing  you." 

"I  don't  mind  you,"  she  repeated.  "But  it  does  make 
things  so  impossible  if  father  and  mother  go  about  fancy- 
ing. .  .  .  Come  to  lunch!  I'll  be  in  time  for  one  meal," 
she  cried,  seizing  his  arm  and  hurrying  him  the  length  of 
the  echoing  refectory. 

At  luncheon  and  recurrently  through  the  afternoon  Bar- 
bara wondered  how  far  Deganway's  gossiping  tongue  had 
already  prejudiced  her  relations  with  Eric.  If  he  heard 
that  they  were  being  discussed,  he  would  in  all  probability 
strike  an  attitude  and  declare  that  he  could  not  be  a  party 
to  compromising  her  any  longer.  At  present  he  was  too 
novel  a  distraction  for  her  to  spare  him  easily;  already 
he  had  become  so  important  to  her  life  that  she  had  for- 
gotten George  Oakleigh  and  the  thrill  of  gratitude  and  ela- 
tion which  she  had  felt  when  he  began  sluggishly  but  surely 
to  fall  in  love  with  her. 

The  house-party  had  dispersed  before  she  came  down 
next  day.  Breakfast  in  bed  was  a  dull  meal,  because  she 
had  hoped  to  find  an  unsolicited  letter  from  Eric — about 
anything.  She  had  to  wait  until  the  second  post,  and  that 
only  brought  her  the  briefest  possible  acceptance  of  her 
invitation.  Not  until  Tuesday  did  she  receive  the  long  let- 
ter which  he  had  written  on  Saturday  night.  And  the  in- 
timacy and  tenderness  of  it  were  half  spoiled  even  then, 
for  Lady  Crawleigh  followed  her  maid  into  the  room,  en- 
quired affectionately  how  Barbara  was  feeling  and  settled 
down  to  read  instructive  extracts  from  The  Times. 

Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday.  Crawleigh  Abbey 
seemed  suddenly  very  big  and  deserted.  Barbara  secured  a 
trunk  call  to  Eric's  flat  on  Monday  night ;  but,  after  twenty 
minutes  to  wonder  why  she  shewed   so  little  pride  and 


INTERMEZZO  133 

whether  he  would  be  angry  with  her,  a  faint  voice  an- 
swered that  Mr.  Lane  was  dining  out.  Something  which 
she  could  not  analyze  told  her  that  she  would  be  taking 
an  unfair  risk  with  his  affection,  if  she  tried  to  communi- 
cate with  him  again.  She  could  hardly  understand  why 
she  was  staying  in  bed  and  taking  so  great  care  of  her- 
self; but  it  was  Eric's  wish,  and  she  had  felt  a  leap  at 
the  heart  when  he  interested  himself  in  her  welfare.  If 
he  only  knew,  it  would  do  her  much  more  good  to  be  with 
him,  to  tease  him  and  laugh  at  him  and  set  him  attitudiniz- 
ing and  then  to  charm  a  word  or  gesture  of  affection  frwn 
him  .  .  .  and  then  to  laugh  at  him  again  and  see  him 
perplexed  and  exasperated.  She  was  very  grateful  to  him 
for  bringing  a  new  interest  into  her  life.  .  .  . 

Little  Val  Arden  had  once  said,  years  before  the  war, 
that  she  would  find  her  greatest  emotion  on  the  day  when 
she  lost  her  heart.  .  .  . 

But  it  were  useless  to  fall  in  love  with  Eric  if  she  could 
not  make  him  return  her  love.  .  .  . 

Thursday  seemed  as  far  away  as  the  throne  of  God  in 
that  ghastly  nightmare.  .  .  .  She  wrote  Mrs.  Shelley  a  let- 
ter which  she  hoped  would  not  read  so  transparently  false 
as  it  seemed  to  her  in  writing. 

"Dearest  Marion,  I  feel  so  rude  for  never  having  apoUh 
gised  either  for  running  away  myself  so  early  or  for  drag' 
ging  Eric  Lane  away  from  your  delightful  party.  I  was 
feeling  dreadfully  tired.  I'm  in  bed  now;  in  fact,  I've 
hardly  been  out  of  bed  since  I  came  here  on  Saturday, 
and  he  put  a  pistol  to  my  head  and  insisted  on  taking  me 
home.  I  shall  be  in  London  for  one  or  two  nights  next 
week.  Will  you  shew  that  you  forgive  us  by  inviting  us 
again?    Your  affectionate  Barbara." 

It  semed  a  pity  not  to  exploit  a  good  idea  to  the  full, 
and  she  next  wrote  to  her  cousin  Amy  Loring. 

"You  said  the  other  day  that  you  had  never  met  Eric 


134   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Lane,  though  he  was  a  great  friend  of  Jim's.  He  was  at 
Margaret  Poynter's  the  other  day  when  I  was  there. 
Would  you  like  me  to  inznte  him  to  dine  one  night  next 
week  (I  shall  be  up  in  London  for  two  or  three  days)? 
Ring  me  up  between  tea  and  dinner  on  Thursday.  .  .  ." 

There  remained  Colonel  Grayle,  who  had  jerked  out,  as 
she  left  the  "Divorce"  with  George  Oakleigh :  "Clever 
play!  Rather  like  to  meet  the  author.  Decent  feller,  I 
beHeve."  If  she  met  him  again,  she  could  offer  to  bring 
about  a  meeting.  .  .  . 

It  was  regrettable  that  she  and  Eric  knew  so  few  people 
in  common. 


Before  leaving  her  dentist,  Barbara  telephoned  to  re- 
mind Eric  of  his  promise  to  dine  with  her.  His  answering 
voice  was  almost  audibly  guilty,  for  the  engagement  had 
been  allowed  to  fade  from  his  mind,  though  his  watchful 
secretary  would  have  seen  to  it  later  that  he  kept  his  ap- 
pointment. 

When  he  arrived,  the  house  was  eerily  dark  and  deserted. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  girl  in  a  black  dress,  presumably 
— from  the  absence  of  cap  and  apron — Barbara's  own  maid, 
and  he  was  conducted  through  a  twilit  hall  where  the  great 
chandeliers  were  draped  in  dusting-sheets,  up  a  side  stair- 
case and  over  more  dusting-sheets  to  the  door  of  the 
boudoir.  Here  the  evidence  of  desolation  ended  in  vast 
bowls  of  autumn  roses,  a  log  fire,  blazing  electric  lights  and 
the  beginnings  of  inevitable  untidiness — ripped  envelopes 
on  the  floor,  a  silk  cloak  in  one  chair  and  gloves  in  another 
and,  on  the  hearth-rug,  a  chinchilla  muff  with  a  grey  Per- 
sian kitten  asleep  half  inside  it. 

Eric  knelt  down  and  played  with  the  kitten  until  the 
bedroom  door  opened  and  Barbara  hurried  in. 


INTERMEZZO  .135 

"Glad  to  see  me,  Eric  ?"  she  whispered. 

"I've — noticed  you  weren't  here,"  he  answered.  "You're 
looking  better,  Babs.    And  I  like  your  kitten." 

"I  brought  her  up  to  chaperon  you,"  she  explained. 
"Are  you  going  to  be  bored,  dining  alone  with  me?  I 
warned  you  what  it  would  be  like."  She  pointed  doubt- 
fully towards  a  table  set  for  two.  "We  put  the  dirty  plates 
on  the  floor,  and  my  maid  will  take  them  away  when  she 
brings  coffee.  I've  only  her  and  one  kitchen-maid  to  keep 
me  alive.  Eric,  I've  been  looking  forward  to  this  most 
enormously.  That  was  a  sweet  letter  you  wrote  me  from 
Lashmar — I  love  the  name!  Lashmar  Mill-House — You 
were  very  fond  of  Jack,  I  could  see.     Shall  we  begin?" 

Eric  looked  at  the  photograph  on  the  mantel-piece  before 
sitting  down. 

"He  was  the  greatest  friend  I  ever  had,"  he  answered 
wistfully.  "An  unusual  character.  If  you  liked  him,  he 
could  make  you  do  anything  he  pleased.  .  .  .  Did  you  see 
much  of  him?  His  sister  was  surprised  to  find  that  you 
knew  him." 

Barbara  finished  her  soup  without  answering.  Then,  as 
Eric  took  away  her  empty  plate,  she  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  slight  frown  of  perplexity. 

"Did  he  never  mention  me  to  you?"  she  asked.  "Some- 
how— I  thought  you  understood,  Eric.  Didn't  any  one  else 
tell  you  ?    There  are  so  many  stories  about  me " 

"I  honestly  don't  know  what  you're  referring  to,"  said 
Eric,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork  in  perplexity. 

She  looked  at  him  closely  with  eyebrows  raised. 

"When  we  discussed  the  photograph,  and  I  asked  you 
to  find  out  anything  you  could  .  .  .  Didn't  you  see  that 
Jack  meant  a  great  deal  to  me  ?" 

The  colour  had  fled  from  her  cheeks,  and  she  was  sitting 
with  head  bent  forward,  deeply  preoccupied  with  the  food 
on  her  plate.    Gazing  blankly  at  her,  Eric  tried  to  imagine 


136    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

what  kind  of  intimacy  she  could  have  formed  with  the 
elusive  celibate  who  never  spoke  to  women  or  discussed 
them.  .  .  . 

Something  was  expected  of  him.  .  .  . 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,"  he  said  lamely.  "Of  course, 
Jack  never  mentioned  a  word " 

"He  wouldn't.  .  .  .  Jim  knew,  but  he  wouldn't  either. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  one  else  to  give  me  away.  .  .  .  I've  al- 
ways been  afraid  of  saying  something  in  my  sleep.  ...  I 
want  to  forget,  forget.  .  .  ." 

The  words  came  out  in  jerks,  with  a  sobbing  struggle  for 
breath  between.  Her  head  was  bent  so  low  that  she  did 
not  see  him  rise  and  come  round  to  her  side;  a  startled 
shiver  passed  through  her,  as  he  knelt  down  and  put  his 
arm  round  her  shoulders,  drawing  her  to  him  until  her 
cheek  rested  against  his. 

"Babs,  dear !    Darling  Babs !"  he  whispered.  "Don't " 

"Ah,  don't  tell  me  not  to  cry,  Eric!  I've  kept  it  down, 
I  hofue  been  brave,  but  it's  sending  me  mad !" 

She  was  sliding  limply  off  the  chair,  as  though  her  bones 
had  been  broken  in  company  with  her  pride  and  resistance. 
He  led  her  to  a  sofa  and  knelt  beside  her,  sometimes  gently 
chafing  her  hands,  sometimes  drying  the  slow  tears  which 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Once  or  twice  she  tried  to  speak, 
but  he  hushed  her  to  silence. 

"Darling,  you  must  stop  now,"  he  commanded  as  the 
tears  ceased  and  she  began  to  sob  drily.     "When  I  said 

'Don't ,'  I  was  going  to  say  'Don't  stop  crying,  don't 

mind  me;  it  will  do  you  good.'  But  you'll  make  yourself 
ill,  if  you  go  on."  He  caught  her  wrist  and  gripped  it, 
"Put  your  feet  up,  because  I'm  going  to  push  the  sofa  to 
the  fire.  .  .  .  Your  shoulders  are  frozen.  .  .  .  Now  I'm 
going  to  bring  you  the  lobster.  .  .  .  And  you  haven't  had 
anything  to  drink  yet." 

After  a  single  weak  protest  she  entered  into  the  spirit 


INTERMEZZO  137 

of  his  fireside  picnic  and  by  the  time  that  he  had  seated 
himself  cross-legged  on  the  floor  she  was  laughing  at  his 
apprehensive  care  in  keeping  his  trousers  from  losing  their 
crease.  When  coffee  was  brought  in,  he  gave  her  a  cig- 
arette and  raised  her  hand  clumsily  to  his  lips. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  been  unsympathetic,  Babs."  There  was 
no  answer,  and  he  could  see  her  staring  into  the  fire  with 
eyes  that  were  covered  with  a  film  of  tears.  "I  didn't  un- 
derstand, I  thought  you  were  ill  and  over-excited,  or  I'd 
have  bitten  out  my  tongue  before  I  snubbed  you  and  told 
you  that  you  were  a  nuisance.    Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

The  film  of  tears  gathered  into  shining  drops  and  rolled 
mournfully  down  her  cheeks. 

"As  if  /  had  anything  to  forgive.  .  .  .  You'll  never  speak 
to  me  again,  if  I  tell  you.  And  if  I  don't  tell  you  .  .  . 
If  I  don't  tell  you,  I  could  never  look  you  in  the  eyes." 

Barbara  stared  at  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  though  she  were  again  making  confession  at  the  judge- 
ment-seat of  God. 

"I  met  Jack  two  years  ago,"  she  began  hurriedly. 
"He'd  been  saying  things  that  hurt  me,  so  I  arranged  to 
stay  with  the  Pentyres  when  he  was  there  and  I  made  him 
fall  in  love  with  me.  One  night  at  Ross  House  he  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  I  ...  I  don't  defend  myself ;  I'd  never 
dreamed  of  marrying  him.  Even  then  it  wouldn't  have 
been  so  bad,  if  I'd  told  him  the  truth,  if  I'd  admitted  that 
I'd  led  him  on  to  punish  him.  Instead  ...  I  looked  for 
some  excuse  which  would  save  my  face;  I  said  'But  you 
aren't  a  Catholic,  are  you  ?'  I  never  saw  him  again  till  my 
cousin  Jim  Loring's  ball  just  before  the  war.  .  .  ." 

At  the  memory  of  their  meeting  Barbara  shuddered  un- 
til she  could  not  speak.  There  had  been  no  hint  of  warn- 
ing; she  was  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  when  Lady 
Knightrider's  car  arrived  from  Raglan,  and  Jack  put  his 


138    THE  EDUCATIOxN  OF  ERIC  LANE 

head  in  at  the  door  to  ask  if  he  might  have  supper  with 
her. 

"I  asked  him  what  he'd  been  doing  with  himself  all  the 
summer,"  Barbara  went  on  with  a  spurt.  "He  said,  'I've 
just  been  received  into  your  Church.' " 

She  paused  and  stared  in  terror  round  the  room  as 
though  it  were  changing  under  her  eyes  into  the  haunted 
banqueting-hall  of  Loring  Castle. 

"I  couldn't  speak,  .  .  .  The  music  stopped,  I  heard  peo- 
ple clapping,  it  went  on  again.  Then  there  were  voices  on 
the  stairs,  and  Jack  asked  me  again  to  marry  him.  I  said 
I  couldn't.  He  wanted  to  know  why.  Then  .  .  .  then  I 
had  to  tell  him  I  wasn't  in  love  with  him.  Then  he  saw 
everything." 

Barbara  looked  up  quickly,  with  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow.  It  was  then  that  Jack 
stared  at  her,  through  her,  into  her  soul;  and  his  eyes 
had  followed  her  ever  since.  At  first  she  braced  herself 
to  meet  his  attack,  but  it  was  not  the  occasion  for  con- 
ventional recriminations.  If  a  man's  soul  could  be  im- 
perilled, she  had  handed  Jack's  over  to  damnation.  God 
.  .  .  Hell  .  .  .  Immortal  souls.  .  .  .  She  had  not  believed 
in  them  till  that  moment,  but  there  was  always  that  eerie 
hundredth  chance  that  they  existed. 

Eerie.  .  .  . 

Her  attention  was  captured  by  the  word  and  wandered 
away  in  search  of  a  missing  line. 

"It's  like  those  eerie  stories  nurses  tell, 
Of  how  some  actor  on  a  stage  phyed  Death, 
With  pasteboard  crozvn,  sham  orb  and  tinselled  dart. 
And  called  himself  the  monarch  of  the  world; 
Then,  going  iti  the  tire-room  afterward, 
Because  the  play  was  done,  to  shift  himself. 
Got  touched  upon  the  sleeve  familiarly. 
The  moment  he  had  shut  the  closet  door, 
By  Death  himself." 


INTERMEZZO  139 

Jack  had  sat  silent  and  motionless,  too  much  dazed  even 
to  rise  and  leave  her.  There  was  a  sound  of  more  voices 
in  the  hall,  and  Charlie  Framlingham  vi^altzed  into  the 
room  with  Jack  Summertown  and  subsided  at  a  table  by 
the  door.  They  had  hardly  begun  supper  when  George 
Oakleigh  entered  to  say  that  war  had  changed  from  specu- 
lation to  probability  and  that  officers  were  being  mobilized. 
Then  at  last  Jack  roused,  and  she  had  only  a  moment  for 
making  amends. 

"Jack  was  talking  about  applying  for  a  commission," 
she  went  on.  "I  went  out  on  to  the  terrace,  I  wanted  to 
think.  ...  It  was  no  good  apologising.  .  .  .  They  got  into 
the  car,  one  after  another.  I  was  still  trying  to  think. 
Jack  came  down  the  steps.  .  .  .  And  then  I  saw  that  there 
was  only  one  reparation  I  could  make ;  I  had  to  offer  my- 
self to  him,  even  if  he  hit  me  in  the  mouth.  ...  I  didn't 
care  about  my  vanity  now;  I  called  out  to  him,  but  the 
others  were  making  such  a  noise.  .  .  .  The  car  started,  1 
was  blinded  by  the  head-lights.  When  I  could  see  again, 
there  was  only  a  little  pin-point  of  red  light.  I  shouted,  ran. 
.  .  .  Then  I  came  back.  When  every  one  else  had  gone 
to  bed,  I  told  Jim.  And  I  thought  he'd  have  killed  me.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  swore  solemnly  that  Jack  should  have  me  if  he 
wanted  me.  I  wrote  to  him,  and  he  never  answered  my 
letter.    I  tried  to  see  him.    And  now  ,  .  ." 

Eric  rose  and  stood  by  the  fire,  resting  his  head  on  his 
hand. 

"You  offered  the  only  reparation  in  your  power,"  he  said 
at  length. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked  dizzily.  'T  want  peace! 
...  I  told  him  that,  whatever  happened,  however  long 
the  war  went  on,  I  should  always  be  here,  always  ready  to 
keep  my  promise,  always  prepared  to  make  what  amends 
I  could.  .  .  .  I've  dedicated  myself.  If  he's  alive,  until  he 
tells  me  that  he  rejects  me  .  .  ." 


140   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

With  a  sigh  of  exhaustion,  she  slipped  forward,  turning 
as  she  fell  and  burying  her  arms  and  face.  The  rose  in  her 
hair  trembled  to  the  heaving  of  her  shoulders  and  scattered 
a  shower  of  petals  over  the  cushions  of  the  sofa. 


"And  I  meant  to  be  so  sweet,  I  meant  to  make  you  en- 
joy yourself  until  you  thought  me  quite  irresistible,"  Bar- 
bara laughed  through  her  tears,  kneeling  upright  on  the 
sofa  and  dabbing  at  her  eyes.  "And  then  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  that  I  have  to  come  up  to  my  dentist  once  a  week 
for  about  two  months ;  and  I  shall  be  all  alone  and  I  wanted 
you  to  promise  to  make  me  happy — like  to-night." 

Her  recovery  was  as  sudden  as  her  collapse.  Still  kneel- 
ing with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  she  leaned  for- 
ward until  he  had  to  catch  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  don't  feel  I've  made  you  particularly  happy  to-night," 
said  Eric,  bending  one  arm  into  an  angle  for  her  head  and 
throwing  the  other  round  her  waist  to  hold  her  on  to  the 
sofa. 

"I  feel  as  if  my  spirit  were  almost  clean  again.  .  .  . 
Will  you  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  Eric  ?" 

"If  you'll  go  to  bed  instantly,  after  leaving  a  note  on 
the  mat  to  say  that  you're  not  to  be  called  till  you  ring." 

There  was  a  touch  of  frost  in  the  air,  as  Eric  walked 
home;  yet  he  went  slowly,  because  he  wanted  to  think. 
Jack  was  his  best  friend,  and  Barbara  had  behaved.  .  .  . 
He  could  not  abuse  the  girl  even  in  thought,  after  trying 
to  comfort  her  and  saying  that  she  started  with  a  clean 
slate.  But  if  any  other  girl  had  behaved  like  that  .  .  . 
any  girl  who  meant  nothing  to  him.  Even  with  Barbara 
he  ought  not  to  be  so  suavely  forgiving  at  Jack's  expense. 
...  It  was  impossible  to  reconcile  loyalty  to  both  of 
them. 


INTERMEZZO  141 

Before  going  to  bed  he  wrote  her  a  note,  inviting  her  to 
lunch  with  him  next  day  at  Claridge's  before  she  went  back 
to  Crawleigh  Abbey;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  sure  of  his 
mood,  Barbara  released  her  invitations;  the  quietest  pos- 
sible party  with  Amy  Loring  (who  was  so  anxious  to  meet 
him  because  he  had  known  Jim),  two  days  afterwards  a 
dinner  for  two  in  Berkeley  Square,  followed  by  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  house-warming,  later  still  a  decorous  and  rather 
dull  dinner  with  Colonel  Grayle. 

"You  might  dine  with  me  for  a  change,"  Eric  suggested, 
as  he  drove  her  home  at  the  end  of  the  week.  "I'll  get 
my  sister  to  come  and  keep  you  in  countenance — she's  never 
seen  my  flat — and  I'll  think  of  another  man." 

"I'd  sooner  dine  with  you  alone,  Eric,"  pleaded  Barbara. 

"On  first  principles  I  discourage  young  girls  from  visit- 
ing bachelors  in  their  rooms.  I  was  born  in  the  'eighties, 
and  I  don't  seem  to  have  caught  up." 

"There  are  restaurants,"  Barbara  suggested.  "It's  quite 
fairly  respectable  to  dine  without  a  chaperon — since  the 
war." 

Eric  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a  frown. 
He  had  not  troubled  to  tell  her  that  he  had  lately  received  a 
shock  which  threatened  to  make  further  meetings  impos- 
sible. During  a  lull  in  the  tumult  at  Mrs.  O'Rane's  party 
he  had  heard  Lady  Maitland's  rumbling  preparations  for  an 
introduction.  "Eric  Lane  ?  My  dear  Raymond  Stornaway, 
you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  heard  of  him?    But  he's  the 

coming  playwright.    You've  not  seen  that  thing  of  his ? 

My  memory's  like  a  sieve.  .  .  .  You  must  go."  It  was 
very  familiar,  but,  as  the  other  voices  fortuitously  grew 
hushed,  he  heard  a  new  pendant.  "But  you  know  herf 
Babs.  Babs  Neave.  Barbara  Neave.  Now  don't  pretend 
you  don't  know  Lady  Barbara  Neave!  Every  one  tells 
me  that  they're  desperately  in  love  with  each  other.  Of 
course  Crawleigh  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  but  he  doesn't  know 


142    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

what  to  do.  You  know  what  the  girl  is!  If  you  oppose 
her.  .  .  .  It's  an  absurd  position.  You  must  come  along 
and  meet  them.  And  I'll  arrange  a  little  party.  I  think 
you'd  be  amused." 

"All  the  restaurants  are  so  crowded  nowadays,"  said 
Eric. 

"But  if  you  telephone  for  a  table " 

He  was  grown  too  fond  of  Barbara  to  provide  people 
like  Lady  Maitland  with  an  excuse  for  saying  that  he  was 
compromising  her;  and  he  was  not  going  to  pave  the  way 
for  an  unpleasant  altercation  with  Lord  Crawleigh  (when 
he  would  have  nothing  to  say  for  himself). 

"I'll  dine  with  you,  if  you  like,"  he  suggested. 


On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  "The  Bomb-Shell"  was 
to  be  produced,  Eric  found  his  diary  overflowing  into  a 
new  volume.  Before  snapping  the  lock  for  the  last  time 
and  burying  the  book  in  the  little  steel  safe  which  he  had 
had  built  behind  one  of  the  panels  in  the  dining-room,  he 
turned  the  pages  for  ten  months,  starting  with  the  first 
night  of  his  first  play  and  ending  with  the  dress  rehearsal 
of  the  second.  The  ten  months'  record  was  so  engrossing 
that  he  lay  in  bed,  smoking  and  reading,  instead  of  ringing 
for  his  secretary.  One  day  he  had  been  an  unknown 
journalist;  the  next — in  a  phrase  of  which  he  could  never 
tire — he  awoke  to  find  himself  famous.  Half-forgotten  ac- 
quaintances who  had  sent  him  cards  for  dances  now  in- 
vited him  to  dinners  at  which  he  was  courted  and  instantly 
handed  on.  At  first  he  had  written  down,  with  more 
pleasure  than  cynicism,  the  complimentary  phrases  which 
had  tickled  his  vanity;  that  had  soon  palled,  and  the  com- 
pliments were  monotonously  framed;  after  two  months  he 
only  recorded  such  triumphs  as  when  old  Farquaharson  in- 


INTERMEZZO  143 

vited  him  to  call.  "I  would  give  much  to  have  written  your 
play;  I  would  have  given  anything  to  write  it  at  your  age." 
Some  day,  when  Barbara  was  in  a  disparaging  mood,  he 
would  shew  her  that  jealously  guarded  letter. 

An  idle  whim  sent  his  fingers  searching  for  the  Poynter 
dinner  where  he  had  first  met  her.  Since  that  night  her  in- 
fluence, suspected  but  never  established,  had  caused  "Dined 
with  Lady  Poynter"  to  be  a  frequent  entry.  Every  Thurs- 
day he  went  to  Berkeley  Square,  every  Friday  Barbara 
lunched  with  him  in  Ryder  Street — after  sweeping  aside  his 
scruples  by  appealing  in  his  presence  to  her  mother  for 
leave  to  come  to  his  flat  unchaperoned.  And  for  an  ap- 
preciable part  of  each  week  Barbara  devoted  herself  to  ar- 
ranging further  meetings  in  the  houses  of  their  friends. 

"Took  Lady  B.  home  late  and  circuitously." 

Eric  was  mildly  surprised  to  find  how  lately  their  tropical 
intimacy  had  begun.  Two  months.  .  .  .  And  no  one — in 
court  or  outside — would  believe  the  truth.  .  ,  .  "Dined 
with  B.  in  her  houdoir,  the  house  being  in  curl-papers. 
She  unwontedly  communicative,  but  tired  and  iti  need  of 
rest."  The  discreet  phrasing  gave  him  all  the  reminder 
that  he  wanted  to  construct  again  the  night  when  she  had 
told  him  about  Jack  Waring — she  had  indeed  been  com- 
municative  ;  and  any  one  who  broke  down  as  she  had 

done  presumably  stood  in  need  of  rest.  .  .  . 

On  that  night  she  had  turned  herself  from  an  adven- 
ture into  a  habit;  in  place  of  sentimental  tilting  there  had 
been  bom  a  love  without  passion.  . 

He  laid  aside  the  diary  as  the  telephone-bell  rang. 

"Hullo?  Good-morning,  Eric.  Many  happy  returns  of 
the  day  I" 

"But  it  isn't  my  birthday." 

"It's  our  new  play,  stupid.  Are  you  feeling  very  ner- 
vous ?" 

"Not  in  the  least.    If  it's  going  to  be  a  success,  it'll  be 


144    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

a  success ;  if  it's  going  to  be  a  failure,  my  feeling  nervous 
won't  help  things." 

"M'yes.  I  like  you  better  when  you're  less  philosophical 
and  more  human.  I  suppose  you're  simply  flooded  with 
telegrams  and  letters  of  good  wishes.  Darling,  Fm  so  ex- 
cited !  If  it  doesn't  go  well — of  course,  it  isn't  a  good  play; 
I've  never  said  that,  have  I  ?" 

"I  sometimes  wonder  whether  you'll  ever  say  that  of 
any  play  I  write,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  will  do  good  work  some  day.  But  I  thought, 
after  knowing  me  all  these  weeks — well,  if  it  doesn't  make 
the  most  tremendous  hit,  I  shall  walk  quietly  out  of  the 
theatre  and  throw  myself  into  the  river." 

"I  certainly  shan't  jump  in  after  you." 

"Not  even  for  the  advertisement?  Would  you  miss  me, 
Eric?" 

"I'm  almost  sure  to  at  first,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh. 
"Babs,  I've  got  to  get  up  now " 

"Don't  you  dare  to  ring  me  off,  Eric !  I  want  to  know 
about  to-night." 

"Scott's  at  seven." 

"And  what  dress  would  you  like  me  to  wear  ?" 

He  pondered  over  the  familiar  ritual, 

"The  one  I  always  call  the  'fairy  queen,'  I  think." 

"Well,  say  'please.' " 

"  'Please.'  I  must  get  up  now,  or  I  shall  be  late  at  the 
office.     Good-bye,  Babs  darling." 

"Good-bye,  sweetheart." 

They  dined  with  unnecessary  haste.  For  all  his  phil- 
osophy, Eric's  nervousness  shewed  itself  in  over-frequent 
consultation  of  his  watch,  and  they  entered  their  box  be- 
fore the  stalls  were  half-full.  Barbara  sat  forward,  bow- 
ing to  friends  in  the  familiar,  first-night  gathering;  but 
he  preferred  to  stand  at  her  side,  hidden  by  a  curtain, 
while  she  called  back  the  names  of  the  new  arrivals.    This 


INTERMEZZO  145 

was  a  greater  ordeal  than  the  evening  when  his  first  play 
was  produced,  for  he  was  known  now,  and  the  critics  would 
judge  him  by  the  success  and  standard  of  the  earlier  play; 
instead  of  a  handful  of  old  colleagues,  he  was  now  on 
nodding  terms  with  a  third  of  the  audience;  it  was  a  per- 
sonal trial,  and  he  did  not  want  to  fail  under  their  eyes; 
most  of  all  he  did  not  want  to  fail  before  Barbara. 

As  the  curtain  went  up,  he  sat  down  beside  her  and,  after 
a  quick  glance  at  the  stage,  began  to  inspect  the  house. 
Her  hand  slipped  into  his,  and  he  heard  a  whispered 
"Cheer  up !  It's  going  to  be  a  tremendous  success.  I  will 
it  to  be!"  Then  his  attention  went  back  to  the  house. 
Why  the  devil  couldn't  people  take  the  trouble  to  arrive  in 
time?  Pushing  their  way  in  late,  blocking  the  view.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Shelley,  of  all  people.  He  knew  her  well  enough  to 
speak  plainly  about  it.  .  .  .  The  house  was  very  quiet,  very 
cold;  expectant,  perhaps,  but  they  ought  to  be  warming 
now.  ...  A  slip — and  another!  It  was  curious  that  a 
woman  like  Mabel  Elstree  could  go  on  rehearsing  and  be- 
ing pulled  up  over  the  same  thing  again  and  again  with- 
out ever  learning — a  moderately  intelligent  woman  too — 
working  at  her  own  job.  .  .  .  The  last  week  had  been 
thrown  away.  .  .  . 

But  in  all  the  rehearsals  he  had  never  noticed  how  this 
opening  dragged.  Manders  had  never  criticized  it  (one  of 
the  few  things  he  hadn't  tried  to  cut  about)  ;  and  it  was 
dragging.  In  a  moment  people  would  be  yawning  and  talk- 
ing to  one  another;  the  pit  would  become  noisy  with  its 
feet;  already  there  was  a  rustle;  if  they  would  only  look 
at  the  stage  instead  of  trying  to  learn  their  programmes 
by  heart!  They  should  have  done  that  before!  And  still 
the  house  was  cold.  .  .  .  God  in  heaven !  small  blame  to  it ! 

Eric  €at  back  with  tightly  shut  mouth,  then  grew  sud- 
denly rigid.  There  was  a  single  quick  laugh,  the  herald 
for  gusty  laughter  rising  simultaneously  from  a  dozen  dif- 


146    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

ferent  parts;  instead  of  stopping,  it  swelled  and  engulfed 
the  house.  Ah,  thank  God !  that  sea  of  vacant,  stiff  faces 
had  broken!  The  house  was  alive  and  warm.  The  play- 
ers, pausing  of  necessity,  breathed  thanksgiving  before  re- 
turning to  dialogue  which  had  become  suddenly  imbued 
with  new  strength  and  finish. 

Eric  felt  Barbara's  lips  at  his  ear. 

"Didn't  I  say  I'd  will  it  for  you?"  she  whispered. 

"It  might  go  quite  well,"  he  answered,  unsuccessfully 
nonchalant.     "Every  one's  in  a  good  temper  now." 

"And  you  can  let  go  my  hand  for  a  minute  !"  She  winced 
and  put  one  knuckle  into  her  mouth.  "I  stood  it  as  long 
as  I  could,  but  you've  been  driznng  my  rings  into  my  un- 
happy finger — All  right,  darling!  kiss  the  place  to  make  it 
well.  I  could  see  you  weren't  enjoying  yourself,  but  you 
wanted  me  to  feel  it,  too.    So  sweet  of  you !" 

In  the  first  interval  they  stayed  in  the  box  and  allowed 
themselves  to  be  seen ;  during  the  whole  of  the  second  an 
army  of  their  friends  laid  siege  to  the  door  with  greetings 
to  Barbara  and  congratulations  to  Eric.  He  would  have 
liked  to  smoke  a  cigarette  outside  with  some  of  his  old 
colleagues ;  he  would  have  liked  still  better  to  think  it  all 
over  in  peace.  This  was  going  to  be  a  greater  success  than 
the  first  play !  And  Barbara,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  was 
saying  "Come  and  congratulate  us !" 

Eric  had  little  idea  who  flooded  the  box  during  that 
tempestuous  ten  minutes.  Lady  Maitland  was  there  with 
an  air  of  having  written  the  play  or  at  least  of  having 
discovered  the  author.  And  Gerald  Deganway,  who  never 
missed  a  first  night,  simpering  falsetto  congratulations. 
And  Colonel  Waring  and  Agnes:  he  remembered  them, 
because  he  was  so  much  surprised  to  see  them  .  .  .  and 
he  had  wanted  to  introduce  Agnes  to  Babs,  and  there  had 
been  no  opportunity.  .  .  .  And  Colonel  Grayle  and  Sonia 
O'Rane,  who  invited  them  to  come  back  for  supper.  .  .  . 


INTERMEZZO  147 

There  was  violent  reaction  after  his  early  nervousness,  and 
he  found  himself  within  an  inch  of  giggling.  When  the 
lights  were  lowered  and  he  had  hurried  the  last  visitors 
from  the  box,  he  sat  down  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  How  long  it  was  he  never  knew,  -before  Barbara 
leaned  over  him,  pulling  gently  at  his  arm. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"Come  outside,"  she  whispered. 

They  walked  to  a  flight  of  four  steps  leading  through  a 
fire-proof  door  to  the  wings. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  ?"  he  asked. 

"Sit  down ;  it's  quiet  here.  Now  listen  carefully :  there's- 
only  about  another  twenty  minutes,  and  then  they'll  want 
a  speech  from  you.  Now,  I  won't  say  a  word !  Just  think 
out  a  few  sentences;  don't  try  to  be  original  or  clever; 
just  thank  them — the  usual  thing — as  conventional  as  you 
can  make  it."  Her  solicitous  voice  trembled  and  broke. 
"My  own  darling,  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  happy!  I'm 
so  proud  of  you !  Our  play !  Oh,  Eric,  thank  God  for  you 
and  all  your  sweetness  to  me!" 

He  looked  up  with  startled  eyes,  suddenly  tired. 

"You're  an  angel,  Babs!  But  you  always  give  me  a 
guilty  conscience,  when  you're  like  this.  I  think  of  the 
things  I  might  have  done  and  haven't;  and  I  think  of  the 
things  I  have  said  and  done,  which  I  might  have  spared 
you." 

"Well,  go  on  giving  me  your  love!  Why  you  should 
talk  as  if  you  owed  me  anything  .  .  ." 

A  moment  later  he  was  alone,  with  the  memory  of  her 
lips  still  trembling  on  his.  He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  paced 
up  and  down  the  passage,  thinking  out  his  speech.  She 
had  left  the  box-door  open,  and,  as  the  curtain  fell,  he 
took  up  his  position  where  he  could  see  the  house  applaud- 
ing. Loud  and  continuous,  gloriously  continuous,  came  the 
clapping.     The  curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and  the  players 


148    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

came  forward,  one  by  one.  A  crescendo  of  cheers  greeted 
Manders,  dying  down  until  he  could  utter  his  smiling  six 
sentences  of  acknowledgement.  Then  there  was  a  pause. 
The  lights  were  still  lowered.  Simultaneously  in  rasping 
barks  came  the  call  of  "Author !  Author !" 

Barbara  turned  her  head  and  blew  him  a  kiss  with  the 
finger-tips  of  both  hands. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  put  in  an  appearance,"  he  drawled, 
stamping  on  his  cigarette-end.  "Don't  be  offended  if  I 
don't  look  at  you,  Babs;  you'd  make  me  forget  all  I  was 
going  to  say." 


"Affection  is  the  most  insidious  form  of  self-indulgence.' 
— From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


MORTMAIN 


"Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 
For  other's  weal  avail'd  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 
But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 

My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 
Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel; 

I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 
I  only  feel — Farewell ! — Farewell !" 
Lord  Byron;    "Farewell!    If  ever  fondest  prayer." 


"I  don't  ask  you  to  say  it's  a  good  play,"  Eric  observed 
to  Barbara,  as  they  rumbled  slowly  home  from  the  O'Ranes' 
supper-party,  "but  is  it  less  bad  than  the  other  ?" 

Any  natural  diffidence  had  evaporated  before  the  memory 
of  the  darkened  theatre,  the  insistent  calls  of  "Author," 
his  effort — while  waiting  for  the  applause  to  die  down — to 
distinguish  faces  in  the  stalls,  the  renewed  clapping  at 
his  speech's  end,  the  levee  in  their  box  and  the  triumphant 
supper. 

"I'm  too  happy  to  be  teased,  Eric,"  she  answered,  nestling 
to  his  side.  "It  isn't  the  great  play  that  you're  going  to 
write  some  day,  when  you've  learned  .  .  .  and  suffered; 
you  still  get  your  women  out  of  rag-books  and  toy-shops; 
but  it's  very  clever,  it's  a  great  success  and  it's  made  you 
happy.  That's  what  matters.  Who  was  the  man  in  the 
box  that  you  called  'sir'?" 

"I  call  most  men  'sir,'  if  they're  older  than  I  am." 

149 


150    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"He  was  with  a  girl  in  a  grey  dress  and  some  rather 
good  pearls." 

Eric  thought  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  her  in  some 
surprise. 

"That  was  Colonel  Waring— Jack's  father.  The  girl 
was  Jack's  sister  Agnes." 

Barbara  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"I  thought  it  was  him  at  first,"  she  whispered. 

Since  the  night  of  Barbara's  confession.  Jack's  name  had 
never  been  mentioned.  If  he  were  indeed  killed,  her 
memory  of  him  would  gradually  wither  and  die;  and  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  discuss  him  without  taking  sides 
and  indulging  in  moral  judgements.  The  Warings  had  ex- 
hausted every  means  of  getting  news  and  would  soon  be 
forced  to  presume  his  death ;  perhaps  they  had  already  done 
so,  but  Eric  was  avoiding  Red  Roofs  since  his  discovery 
that  he  did  not  want  to  marry  Agnes.  Amid  the  turmoil 
of  greetings  and  congratulations,  he  had  found  time  to 
feel  embarrassed  by  her  presence  in  the  box;  until  Bar- 
bara took  the  light  and  colour  out  of  all  other  women, 
Agnes  had  satisfied  every  demand.  He  was  embarrassed, 
too,  by  seeing  the  two  girls  face  to  face,  watching,  measur- 
ing and  unobtrusively  speculating  about  each  other,  as 
women  always  did ;  if  there  were  room  for  moral  judge- 
ments, Barbara  had  no  defence  against  Jack  Waring's 
sister. 

"She  gave  me  that  glass  horse-shoe  for  luck  the  night  my 
first  play  was  produced,"  said  Eric  irrelevantly. 

"And  Jack  gave  me  the  counterpart,"  Barbara  sighed. 
"That's  why  I  wanted  yours  to  replace  it.  Instead  of 
which  I  only  broke  yours." 

"Well,  you  haven't  broken  my  luck,  as  you  feared." 

Her  shoulder,  pressing  against  his,  communicated  a  shud- 
der.    Though  three  months  had  passed  without  news  of 


MORTMAIN  i^r 

Jack,  Barbara  could  not  feel  secure  even  when  she  was 
alone  with  Eric. 

"Don't  boast.  You  may  yet  come  to  curse  the  day  when 
we  met,  you  may  find  I've  spoiled  your  life  and  broken 
your  luck." 

"Luck?"  Eric  laughed  a  little  scornfully.  The  success 
of  the  "Bomb-Sheir  ensured  that,  if  he  never  wrote  another 
line,  he  would  at  least  not  starve.  "When  are  we  going 
to  meet  again,  Babs?" 

Looking  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  that  their  cab  was 
opposite  the  Ritz  and  that  she  had  three  hundred  yards 
more  of  him. 

"Does  it  matter?"  she  asked.  "If  you're  so  independent 
of  me?" 

"I  can  live  without  peach-brandy,  but  I  like  it.  If  you'll 
dine  with  me,  I'll  give  you  some — and  all  the  food  you 
most  like.    I  owe  the  O'Ranes  a  dinner " 

"Oh,  we  won't  have  any  one  else !"  she  interrupted.  Her 
use  of  the  plural  lost  none  of  its  charm  by  familiarity. 
"I'll  come  on  Friday,  if  you  like." 

"On  Friday  old  Ettrick  is  giving  a  dinner  in  my  honour 
at  the  club.  What  about  Monday?  But  I  shan't  let  you 
come  alone;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  invited  the  O'Ranes 
for  that  night." 

"You  don't  like  being  alone  with  me?" 

"I'm  thinking  solely  of  what  would  be  said." 

Barbara  pouted  and  sat  silent  until  she  could  launch 
an  ultimatum  as  the  cab  stopped  at  her  door.  The  success 
of  his  first  night  was  making  Eric  masterful;  and  she 
wanted  to  test  her  power. 

"If  I  can't  dine  with  you  in  the  way  I  like  .  .  ."  she  be- 
gan fretfully.  "You  only  want  to  shew  me  off  to  the 
O'Ranes.  .  .  ." 

Eric  forgave  the  petulance  because  he  could  see  that  she 
was  tired.    But  he  was  tired  too.  .  .  . 


152    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"If  you  don't  care  about  the  O'Ranes,  I'll  see  if  I  can 
get  some  one  else  some  other  time,"  he  said.  "It  wouldn't 
do  for  you  to  dine  with  me  alone." 

"I  believe  you're  in  love  with  Sonia,"  she  rejoined  ill- 
humouredly. 

"What  nonsense!  .  .  .  Good-night,  Babs.  Thanks  so 
much  for  coming." 

On  reaching  home,  he  wrote  to  invite  Mrs.  Shelley  for 
Monday.  If  Barbara  rang  him  up  in  the  morning,  her 
repentance  would  be  too  late ;  he  had  only  four  arm-chairs 
in  the  dining-room. 

There  was  no  call  from  Barbara  in  the  morning,  neither 
note  nor  meeting  throughout  the  day  and  no  call  at  night. 
Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before;  there  might  be 
some  occult  cause  of  offence;  his  experience  of  Barbara 
taught  Eric  that  she  would  cease  to  sulk  when  she  wanted 
him;  it  was  his  experience  of  all  women  that  none  repaid 
a  man  the  trouble  of  tr>4ng  to  understand  her  moods. 
Thursday  was  like  Wednesday  (and  he  knew  that  she  was 
not  returning  to  Crawleigh  until  Saturday)  ;  Friday  was 
like  Thursday — until  the  evening,  when  he  nervously  en- 
tered the  Thespian  Club  as  guest  of  honour.  The  hall- 
porter  projected  himself  through  the  window  of  his  box 
and  handed  Eric  a  note. 

''All  success,  dear  Eric"  he  read.  "I  wish  I  could  he 
there  to  hear  you.  I  shall  ring  you  up  to-night,  and  you 
must  tell  me  all  about  it.  Imagine  I'm  sitting  by  you, 
darling,  and  don't  let  the  speech  disappoint  me.    B." 

He  thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket,  as  Lord  Ettrick  came 
forward  to  greet  him.  Congratulations  and  badinage  broke 
out  on  all  sides;  he  shook  hands  until  his  arm  ached  and 
he  gave  up  trying  to  count  the  numbers;  it  was  enough 
that  he  could  recognize  one  face  out  of  three.  .  .  . 

"You  seem  to  have  mobilized  half  the  club,"  Eric  com- 


MORTMAIN  153 

mented,  looking  with  gratification  at  the  growing  half- 
circle  by  the  fire, 

"You're  between  Gaisford  and  me/'  said  Ettrick,  detach- 
ing him  for  a  cocktail  and  cigarette  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room.  "I'm  proposing  your  health,  you'll  have  to  reply; 
and  that'll  be  all  the  speeches,  unless  we  sit  late.  Manders 
has  promised  to  come  as  soon  as  he  can  get  away  from  the 
theatre,  and  that  may  start  the  ball  again.  By  the  way, 
is  it  official  yet?     I  haven't  seen  any  announcement." 

"Is  what  official  ?" 

"I  heard  that  you  were  engaged." 

Eric's  composure  poured  out  of  him,  and  he  felt  his 
mouth  growing  loose. 

"Where  did  you  hear  that?"  he  asked  with  an  effort. 

"Oh,  scores  of  people  have  told  me.  I  came  to  your 
box  rather  late  the  other  night,  but  I  was  told  that  the  lady 
in  question  had  been  inviting  every  one  to  congratulate 
you  both." 

For  a  moment  Eric  frowned  in  perplexity;  then  his  face 
lightened. 

"That  was  on  account  of  the  play,"  he  explained.  "She 
came  to  one  or  two  of  the  rehearsals,  and,  on  the  strength 
of  that,  it  was  always  'our  play.'  ...  I  say,  have  you  really 
heard  that  from  many  people  ?  She's  a  very  great  friend  of 
mine,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  feel  that  our  names  were  be- 
ing coupled." 

Lord  Ettrick  wrinkled  his  forehead  in  surprise  and  shook 
his  head  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Then,  my  young  friend,  if  that's  your  ambition,  you're 
not  going  the  right  way  about  it.  I'm  too  busy  by  day  to 
go  out  much  at  night,  but  any  time  during  the  last  month 
or  two  .  .  .  You  know  how  people  talk;  and  you're  both 
of  you  pretty  well  known."  Eric's  look  of  mortification 
roused  him  to  a  more  conciliatory  tone.  "It's  done  now, 
and,  if  it  doesn't  blow  over,  you'll  only  have  yourself  to 


154    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

thank.  I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  the  subject,  if  I  thought 
it  was  going  to  spoil  your  dinner.  But  I  very  nearly  coa- 
gatulated  you  publicly.  .  .  .  Let's  see  if  we're  all  here," 

They  returned  to  the  fire,  and  Ettrick  called  the  roll. 
Throughout  dinner,  when  Eric  ought  to  have  been  thinking 
over  his  speech,  he  sat  dazed  by  the  warning  and  his  own 
blindness.  Six  weeks  before,  Lady  Maitland  was  pro- 
claiming that  he  and  Barbara  were  in  love  with  each  other ; 
now  a  dry  stick  of  a  law  lord,  retiring  and  uninterested 
in  gossip,  heard  of  their  engagement  from  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent mouths  and  was  an  inch  removed  from  congratulat- 
ing him  before  half  the  club.  Eric  might  assume  that  other 
eyes  had  observed  him  calling  for  her,  shopping  with  her ; 
it  was  accepted  that,  when  they  dined  in  the  same  house, 
he  should  always  take  her  home;  it  was  almost  accepted 
that  one  could  not  be  invited  to  dine  without  the  other.  .  .  . 

It  hardly  lay  in  his  mouth  to  tell  Barbara  that  she  must 
not  compromise  herself. 

A  waiter  entered  with  a  telegram  for  Lord  Ettrick,  which 
he  read  and  handed  to  Eric. 

"Regret  confined  bed  severe  chill  all  success  to  dinner 
and  congratulations  and  best  ivishes  to  our  distinguished 
young  friend." 

It  was  signed  by  the  one  absentee,  whose  chair  still  stood 
empty  on  the  opposite  side.  Eric  suddenly  remembered 
Barbara's  note:  "Imagine  I'm  sitting  by  you,  darling." 
As  he  read  it,  he  wished  that  he  could  have  brought  her 
there;  in  the  morning-room  he  had  wished — no,  he  had 
thought  how  proud  he  would  have  been  to  tell  Lord  Ettrick 
that  the  story  was  true.  If  he  could  see  her  now  in  the 
empty  chair,  a  rose  behind  one  ear,  a  silk  shawl  broidered 
with  grey  birds  in  flight,  as  on  the  evening  when  they  first 
met  .  .  . 

But  she  would  hardly  come  dressed  as  Carmen.     And, 


MORTMAIN  155 

however  she  arrayed  herself,  the  Thespian  Club  would  not 
admit  her.  .  .  . 

"Well,  have  you  thought  out  your  speech?"  asked  Lord 
Ettrick. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  what  you  said  before  dinner," 
Eric  answered. 

"Don't  take  it  too  seriously.  You  know  how  people 
talk." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  them  to  talk  like  that  about  her! 
She's  the  best  friend  I've  got." 

He  hesitated  in  surprise  at  his  own  vehemence, 

"Have  you  observed  one  thing?"  Lord  Ettrick  enquired 
after  a  pause.  "Neither  of  us  has  mentioned  the  lady's 
name." 

"Well " 

"Exactly.  Well,  if  it  wasn't  necessary  for  me,  who  after 
all  don't  go  about  very  much — But  you  needn't  take  it  to 
heart." 

"Oh,  I'm  not,"  said  Eric  carelessly.  "And,  as  you  said, 
I  shall  only  have  myself  to  blame  if  the  story's  not  scotched 
here  and  now." 

"I'll  propose  the  King's  health  now,"  said  Lord  Ettrick, 
"and  then  we  can  have  something  to  smoke," 


By  the  simple  standard  of  applause,  Eric  achieved  a 
success.  Abandoning  his  prepared  speech,  he  followed 
Lord  Ettrick's  lead,  picked  up  his  cues  and  surrendered 
himself  to  the  moment.  It  was  something  of  a  triumph 
to  amuse  others  when  he  was  so  little  amused  himself. 

"Not  nearly  long  enough,"  said  Dr.  Gaisford,  as  Eric 
looked  furtively  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist.  He  was  won- 
dering how  soon  he  could  go  home  and  telephone  to  Bar- 
bara. 


156    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Shall  we  go  upstairs  or  sit  here?"  asked  Lord  Ettrick. 
"Manders  ought  to  be  with  us  in  another  half-hour." 

Eric  remembered  with  consternation  that  he  would  be 
expected  to  stay  at  least  until  midnight.  There  was  no 
escaping  it.  Five  and  thirty  men,  his  friends  and  enter- 
tainers, were  preparing  for  a  long,  happy  session;  their 
chairs  were  turned  at  comfortable  angles,  they  had  shuf- 
fled and  sorted  themselves  into  congenial  groups,  each  was 
at  the  earliest  stage  of  a  long  cigar,  and  they  waited  on 
him  in  turn  like  an  endless  series  of  deputations, 

"I've  discussed  the  nightly  takings  of  a  theatre  with 
Ettrick,"  he  whispered,  when  Manders  arrived  at  half-past 
eleven  as  vigorous  and  high-spirited  as  if  he  had  just  got 
out  of  bed ;  "the  Dardanelles  expedition  with  Gaisford,  the 
plays  of  Synge  with  George  Oakleigh,  'The  Bomb-Shell' 
with  Vincent  Grayle,  memories  of  Jessie  Farborough  with 
Deganway,  'The  Bomb-Shell'  with  Grierson,  Ibsen  with 
Harry  Greenbank,  and  'The  Bomb-Shell'  with  Donald  But- 
ler.   I'm  worn  .out!" 

"Stay  a  bit  longer,  boy,"  Manders  begged,  "I've  only 
just  come." 

When  at  last  he  escaped,  there  was  no  taxi  to  be  had, 
though  Eric  told  a  waiter  to  keep  the  first  that  drove  up. 
He  covered  half  of  the  way  to  Ryder  Street  at  a  run, 
threw  himself  on  his  bed  and  asked  for  the  familiar  num- 
ber in  Berkeley  Square. 

After  a  long  interval  a  sleepy  voice  said :  "Yes  ?  My 
dear,  you  are  late!  I've  rung  you  up  again  and  again. 
I — Eric,  I  was  afraid  you  were  angry  with  me  for  sulking." 

"I  say,  Babs !"  He  began  earnestly  and  had  no  idea  how 
to  go  on.  "Angry  with  you?  Don't  be  so  ridiculous!  I 
got  a  very  sweet  note  from  you  to-night.  Thank  you.  And 
I  think  the  speech  went  down  all  right,    I  say,  Babs.  .  .  ." 

"You're  out  of  breath,  sweetheart." 

"I  came  home  in  rather  a  hurry.    Can  you  see  me  some 


MORTMAIN  157 

time?  I  suppose  you're  going  to  Crawleigh  to-morrow — « 
That's  no  good.    Can  you  dine  with  me  on  Tuesday?" 

"I  wanted  you  to  come  here  on  Tuesday." 

"You  never  said  anything  about  it.    Will  you  be  alone  ?'* 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Eric,  will  you  be  honourable?  It's  my 
half-birthday;  I  always  have  two  a  year.  I  didn't  tell  you, 
because  I  was  afraid  you'd  rush  out  and  buy  me  a  present. 
And  I  couldn't  bear  to  receive  anything  more  from  you. 
But  will  you  come  without  a  present?  I've  got  a  little 
party." 

"I  should  love  it.  Thank  you,  Babs.  But  I  want  to  see 
you  alone." 

She  was  silent  for  several  moments. 

"You're  very  mysterious,  darling,"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  heard  something  to-night  that  rather  upset  me " 

"About  Jack?" 

A  thrill  of  expectation  had  come  into  her  voice. 

"Oh,  no!  It's  one  of  those  things  that  wouldn't  matter 
if  we  weren't  all  congenital  idiots.'* 

"It's  not  something  I've  done?" 

"My  dear  child,  no!" 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"I'd  rather  not  on  the  telephone.  I  may  get  a  moment 
on  Tuesday;  if  not,  can  you  dine  with  me  here  the  next 
night?" 

"Alone t"  Her  laugh  mocked  him  without  malice.  "I 
insist  on  bringing  my  kitten." 

He  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"You  may  bring  the  kitten.  I  know  I'm  asking  you  to 
do  something  that  I  disapprove  of,  but  I'm  rather  worried 
and  I  must  see  you  alone." 

For  three  days  he  explored  cautiously  to  discover  how 
far  the  Ettrick  story  had  spread.  Saturday  brought  him  a 
heavy  bundle  of  news-cuttings;  but  they  were  all  con- 
cerned with  "The  Bomb-Shell."    No  one  wrote  to  him,  no 


158    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

one  confronted  him  with  a  blunt  question,  though  Ettrick 
had  protested  that  the  story  was  common  property.  When 
Eric  walked  to  Berkeley  Square  for  the  birthday  party,  he 
was  embarrassed  for  the  first  time  in  shaking  hands  with 
Lord  Crawleigh ;  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  summoned 
to  a  very  unpleasant  interview. 

It  was  obvious  at  a  glance  that  no  one  would  have  private 
conversation  with  Barbara  that  night.  She  stood  in  the 
drawing-room  at  the  apex  of  a  triangle  with  a  compact  row 
of  parents  behind  and,  supporting  them,  a  longer  row  of 
silent,  embarrassed  brothers;  cousins  in  every  degree  de- 
scribed a  circle  round  the  triangle,  and  in  a  wider,  looser 
circle  stood  people  who  knew  Eric  and  needed  diplomatic 
handling  to  hide  his  forgetfulness  of  them. 

"My  aunt's  parties  are  like  a  Derby  Day  crowd,"  panted 
Amy  Loring,  as  an  unseen  pianist  began  to  play  and  they 
were  squeezed  into  the  embrasure  of  a  window.  "I've  not 
had  time  to  see  who's  here  yet.  Babs,  of  course,  looks 
divine." 

"She  looks  well  in  anything,"  Eric  answered.  It  was 
dangerous  to  praise  her  even  to  her  own  cousin  lest  one 
more  voice  should  rise  to  proclaim  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her. 

"You're  a  great  friend  of  hers,  aren't  you?"  Amy  asked. 
"Some  one  told  me  at  tea  to-day " 

Eric  became  rigid,  and  she  stopped. 

"Yes?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Lane,  you  don't  even  know  what  I  was 
going  to  say!" 

"I  think  I  do." 

"Then  you  aren't  very  complimentary  to  Babs." 

"I  feel  a  certain  responsibility  towards  her." 

"You  mustn't  mind  too  much  what  people  say.  .  .  .  You 
know  George  Oakleigh?  Well,  in  the  dark  ages,  when  I 
came  out,  he  and  I  were  very  great  friends;  we  always 


MORTMAIN  159 

have  been ;  I've  known  him  all  my  life,  and  his  cousin  mar- 
ried my  poor  brother.  .  .  .  Need  I  say  that  quite  a  num- 
ber of  people  ...  ?  If  they'd  troubled  to  think  for  a 
moment,  they  might  have  remembered  that  I  was  a  Catho- 
lic, but  a  little  thing  like  that  never  occurs  to  them.  .  .  . 
D'you  mind  my  talking  to  you  like  this  ?"  she  asked  with  a 
smile  that  sweetened  the  abruptness  of  her  tone.  "When  I 
introduced  the  subject,  you  froze  up  so " 

"Can't  you  understand  ?"  he  interrupted.  "I'm  very  fond 
indeed  of  Barbara,  but  if  people  talk  like  this  .  .  ." 

"Don't  mind  what  people  say,  Mr.  Lane.  ...  I  feel  we 
— all  the  family — owe  you  such  an  enormous  debt.  No  one 
knows  what  was  the  matter  with  Babs,  but  my  aunt  was 
really  afraid  we  might  lose  her.  Of  course,  she'd  led 
rather  a  wild  and  wearing  life  since  she  was  a  child;  sud- 
denly she  collapsed.  I  do  feel  that  you've  saved  her  life, 
you  know ;  she's  the  old,  vital,  irresistible  Babs  once  more — 
except  that  you've  taught  her  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"The  position  is  a  little  awkward.  If  people  talk,  if 
Lord  Crawleigh " 

"I  think  he  quite  likes  you,"  Amy  interrupted. 

Eric  bowed  and  pretended  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the 
music.  It  was  common  knowledge  that  Barbara's  fortune 
was  forfeit  on  the  day  when  she  married  any  one  but  a 
Catholic;  if  he  had  ever  contemplated  marrj'ing  her,  the 
fees  from  the  "Divorce"  and  "The  Bomb-Shell"  would 
not  keep  them  for  six  months.  He  wondered  whether  Amy 
Loring's  embassage  had  been  inspired. 

"I  always  feel  that  Lord  Crawleigh  condemned  the 
world  and  then  allowed  it  to  continue  existing  on  day-to- 
day reprieves,"  he  said. 

"That's  rather  my  uncle's  manner.  He  hasn't  insulted 
you  yet  ?    He  Tvill." 

"He's  only  seen  me  once  by  daylight.  I  fancy  he 
thinks  I'm  one  of  the  footmen.    If  I  came  to  him  in  any 


i6o    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

other  capacity  .  .  .  The  industrious  ink-slinger,  you 
know " 

Amy  tossed  her  head  impatiently. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you're  a  genius  or  not,  because 
I'm  not  clever  about  books  and  things.  But  you've  made 
an  enormous  name  for  yourself,  you've  a  big  career  before 
you ;  and,  so  long  as  a  man's  a  gentleman — by  which  I  don't 
mean  what  most  people  do, — I  wouldn't  let  anything  stand 
in  the  way — except  religion,  of  course.  And  I'm  afraid 
that  doesn't  count  very  much  with  Babs."  She  lapsed  into 
silence,  as  though  she  had  already  said  too  much.  "And 
I  know  I'm  right,"  she  added  at  length. 

"I  daresay  you  are.  .  .  .  You  see,  I've  never  regarded 
Barbara  as  anything  but  a  wonderful  friend.  We  casually 
dropped  into  an  extraordinary  intimacy " 

"It's  been  too  easy,  too  casual!"  she  cried.  "You've 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Neither  of  you  appreciate 
what  you  are  to  the  other — I'm  simply  speaking  from  my 
impression;  Babs  hasn't  said  anything,  naturally,  and  I've 

hardly  had  two  words  with  you  until  to-night ;  if  it 

had  been  less  easy " 

"If  your  uncle  had  forbidden  me  the  house?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"If  either  of  you  were  in  danger  of  losing  the  other  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what  you  think  of  me,  talking  like  this?" 

"I'm  grateful." 

The  music  came  to  an  end,  and  Gerald  Deganway  gave 
imitations  of  the  various  ministers  whom  he  had  served 
as  private  secretary.  Eric  looked  across  the  room  and 
identified  Barbara  leaning  against  the  piano.  She  was 
better,  happier;  and  he  had  grown  to  be  very  fond  of  her. 
So  long  as  they  met  daily  without  marrying,  he  shirked 
deciding  whether  he  wanted  to  marry  her.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  drift;  but,  when  the  cloud  of  gossip  and  specu- 
lation penetrated  into  the  heart  of  the  Crawleighs'  own 


MORTMAIN  i6i 

home,  a  man  of  honour  could  not  shirk  the  decision  any 
longer.  He  could  ask  Barbara  to  marry  him;  or  her 
father  could  inspire  a  paragraph  in  the  press,  admitting  the 
rumour  in  order  to  contradict  it.  Failing  that,  he  would 
have  to  say  good-bye  to  her,  though  she  had  become  so 
much  a  habit  as  almost  to  be  part  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

The  imitations  were  succeeded  by  more  music,  and  Eric 
threaded  his  way  to  the  piano  where  Carstairs  and  Oak- 
leigh  were  begging  Barbara  to  sing. 

"Honestly,  I've  no  voice  to-night,"  he  heard  her  say. 

As  he  drew  near,  she  seemed  to  feel  his  presence  and 
turned  with  a  quick  smile. 

"Can't  you  manage  one?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  perhaps  one,  if  you  want  me  to.  What  shall 
it  be?" 

"That  thing  out  of  'Butterfly' "  Eric  suggested. 

"I'll  sing  it,  if  you  like." 

As  Eric  sought  a  chair,  Oakleigh  looked  at  him,  stroked 
his  chin,  sighed  gently  and  withdrew  to  the  bridge-room 
as  though  he  could  not  face  seeing  them  together. 


"I  want  you  to  take  this  seriously,"  said  Eric,  when 
Barbara  arrived  for  dinner.  "Don't  try  to  laugh  it  off 
by  saying  I'm  conventional;  I  know  I  am.  The  fact  is, 
people  are  beginning  to  talk  about  us.  I  want  to  discuss 
what's  to  be  done." 

His  earnestness  kept  Barbara  from  smiling,  and,  as  he 
was  worried  and  ill  at  ease,  she  beckoned  him  to  a  place  by 
her  side  on  the  sofa. 

"Do  you  find  it  so  intolerable  to  have  your  name  joined 
with  mine  ?"  she  asked  a  little  wearily. 

He  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  Instead  of  being  em- 
barrassed herself  or   feeling  gratitude  that  he  was  em- 


i62    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

barrassed  for  her  reputation,  she  spoke  as  though  the  gos- 
sipers  had  conferred  a  favour  upon  him. 

"If  the  thing  were  true,  it  would  be  another  matter  alto- 
gether. Subject  to  your  parents'  approval,  I  think  the  best 
thing  would  be  to  get  a  paragraph  into  the  papers,  saying 
that  there's  no  foundation  for  the  rumour." 

"But  the  rumour  hasn't  got  into  the  papers  yet,"  she  ob- 
jected. 

"I'm  meeting  it  on  every  hand." 

"But,  if  I  don't  mind,  why  should  you?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  I  do  mind.  I  don't  like  you  to  be  'talked  about.* 
And  I  don't  care  to  have  people  saying  that  I'm  getting 
you  'talked  about,' "  he  added  with  heat.  "You  must  try 
to  look  at  this  from  a  man's  point  of  view.  If  you  were 
my  sister,  and  some  man  who  had  no  intention  of  marry- 
ing you,  some  man  whom  you  had  no  intention  of  marry- 
mg 

"You've  never  asked  me,"  she  interrupted. 

Eric  was  shocked  into  silence.  When  he  was  fighting  for 
her  reputation,  she  was  once  more  the  coquette  as  he  re- 
membered her  at  their  first  meeting. 

"I've  thought  this  over,  Babs,  from  every  point  of  view," 
he  went  on,  with  an  effort  keeping  his  temper  under  her 
look  of  slightly  bored  amusement.  "There  are  three  ways 
out  of  the  difficulty;  the  first  is  what  certain  people  think 
the  most  obvious — that  we  should  make  the  story  true ;  the 
second  is  that  we  should  contradict  it  publicly — it's  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  do — and  the  third  is  that  we 
should  give  up  seeing  each  other." 

He  stood  up  with  the  pretence  of  warming  his  hands  and 
fidgeted  restlessly  by  the  fire.  Barbara  had  lost  her  ex- 
pression of  amusement  and  was  honestly  puzzled  that  he 
should  make  so  great  a  pother  about  a  piece  of  idle  gossip. 

They  remained  without  speaking  until  a  maid  entered  to 
announce  dinner. 


MORTMAIN  163 

"I'm  sorry  you've  been  worried,"  she  said  gently.  "For 
once  it  really  wasn't  my  fault.  ...  I  suppose  I'm  hardened 
to  this  sort  of  thing.  Why  don't  you  just  not  worry?  And 
give  me  dinner,  because  I'm  very  hungry." 

"I  can't  leave  it  like  that,"  said  Eric,  as  he  accompanied 
her  to  the  dining-room.  "A  plain  statement  in  the 
press " 

"It  would  simply  draw  attention  to  it." 

"Well,  that's  one  of  the  solutions  ruled  out." 

"And  I'm  left  with  the  choice  of  marrying  you — ^you 
haven't  asked  me  yet! — or  saying  good-bye?  There  is 
another  alternative,  Eric:  and  that  is  to  shew  you're  too 
sensible  to  mind  what  silly  people  say  about  you." 

Eric  shook  his  head  obstinately. 

"No  good,  I'm  afraid." 

"Well,  try  to  think  of  something  else,"  she  sighed. 
"Don't  spoil  our  evening,  sweetheart." 

The  intermittent  presence  of  the  maid,  rather  than  any 
state  of  mental  satisfaction  in  Eric,  kept  the  conversation 
peaceful.  He  almost  forgot  the  annoyances  of  the  last 
week  in  watching  Barbara's  delighted  enjoyment  of  a  new 
experience  so  trivial  as  dining  with  him  for  the  first  time 
in  his  own  flat.  Nothing  escaped  her  curious  notice — a 
wine  that  he  gave  her  to  try  with  the  scallops,  the  Lash- 
mar  chrysanthemums  in  a  flat,  blue-glass  bowl,  the  unaging 
pleasure  of  an  invisibly  lighted  room,  Australian  passion- 
fruit  at  dessert,  a  new  artist's  proof.  .  .  . 

"You're  really  like  a  child  at  a  pantomime,  Babs,"  he 
laughed,  when  they  were  alone. 

She  rose  slowly  and  bent  over  him,  touching  his  fore- 
head with  her  lips  and  then  kneeling  beside  his  chair. 

"I'm  interested  in  everything!"  she  cried.  "I  love  new 
experiences !  At  least,  I  did.  I  loved  meeting  new  people, 
hearing  new  things — the  world  was  so  wonderful.  And 
then — I  never  understood  why  I  went  on  living.  .  .  .  You 


1 64    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

made  life  wonderful  for  me  again.  The  first  night  we  met, 
when  I  came  here.  .  .  .  You  were  quite  right,  Eric,  I  was 
a  fool.  .  .  .  But  somehow  I  wasn't  afraid.  I  knew  you'd 
put  your  hand  in  the  fire  for  me." 

He  stroked  her  head  and  gave  a  sudden  shiver.  No  one 
would  ever  know  what  path  he  might  have  chosen  that  night 
out  of  the  maze  of  his  disordered  emotions. 

"In  those  days  you  were  nothing  to  me,"  he  murmured. 

"But  you  put  all  women  on  pedestals.  .  .  .  Eric,  will  you 
believe  me  if  I  say  that  I've  tried  to  live  up  to  your  concep- 
tion of  me?" 

"But  do  you  know  what  my  conception  of  you  is  ?" 

"Something  a  thousand  miles  higher  than  I  can  ever 
climb !  When  I'm  restless,  lonely,  I  think  of  our  love,  your 
wonderful  devotion — like  a  mother's  to  her  child  .  .  .  and 
my  love  for  you.    Give  me  your  cigarette,  Eric." 

Before  he  could  see  what  she  was  doing,  the  glowing  end 
had  been  pressed  against  her  hand  until  it  blackened  and 
died.  He  saw  her  eyes  shut  and  her  lip  whitening  as  she 
bit  it.  Her  body  swayed  and  fell  forward  before  the 
crumpled  cigarette  dropped  on  to  the  carpet. 

"You  little — Babs,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

She  opened  her  eyes,  breathing  quickly  and-holding  out  her 
hand  to  shew  a  vermilion  ring  with  a  leprous-white  centre. 

'Td  put  my  hand  in  the  fire  for  you!"  she  panted. 

"You  little  fool !"  He  was  filled  with  a  desire  to  hurt  her 
for  having  hurt  herself.    "Look  here,  Barbara.  .  .  ." 

But  she  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  pressing  the 
wounded  hand  to  her  lips. 

"You  don't  know  how  it  hurt  1"  she  cried  with  a  tremble 
in  her  voice. 

"What  good,  precisely,  d'you  think  you've  done?"  he 
asked. 

She  snatched  a  spill  from  the  mantel-piece  and  thrust  it 
between  the  bars  of  the  fire. 


MORTMAIN  165 

"If  you  want  it  again !" 

Eric  dragged  her  upright  with  one  arm  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"We'll  have  coffee  in  the  smoking-room,"  he  said.  "Bar- 
bara, what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

She  laughed  almost  hysterically. 

"I  feel  I'm  fighting  for  my  life!  That  was  to  shew  you 
I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  you  asked  me  to!  And  you 
talk  about  our  giving  up  meeting  .  .  .  like  giving  up  smok- 
ing!" 

Eric  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  lighted  her  cigarette 
in  silence.  Only  a  fool  would  break  that  silence  for  twenty- 
four  hours.  .  .  . 

"A  bit  rash  that,  isn't  it  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  cut  his  cigar. 

"You  won't  ask  me  anything  that  I  don't  want  you  to," 
she  answered.  "And  you  know  there  are  some  things  I 
can't  give  you." 

Coffee  was  brought  in,  and  he  offered  her  sugar,  knowing 
well — if  he  had  been  able  to  collect  himself — ^that  she  never 
took  it.  Her  cigarette  went  out  and  required  another  match. 
A  pile  of  five  books,  still  in  their  wrappers,  absorbed 
her. 

It  was  only  half -past  ten  when  she  forced  a  yawn  and 
asked  him  to  get  her  a  taxi.  He  collected  a  coat  and  hat 
from  the  hall  and  arranged  his  muffler  elaborately  with  his 
back  to  her. 

"Returning  to  the  other  thing,"  he  began  slowly.  "We've 
not  exactly  disposed  of  it,  have  we  ?" 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  leave  it  alone,"  she  answered 
timidly. 

"That's  out  of  the  question."  He  banged  open  his  opera 
hat  and  squeezed  it  shut  again.  "Why  won't  you  have  a 
simple  contradiction  in  the  press  ?"  he  pleaded. 

"I  don't  want  it.    Isn't  that  enough?" 


1 66    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Certainly.  But  ...  I  don't  want  to  say  good-bye,  if  I 
can  help  it." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  slowly  and  carefully;  she  was 
utterly  at  fault. 

"It's  for  you  to  decide,"  she  said. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  alternative." 

She  stood  up  and  wrapped  a  lace  scarf  round  her  throat. 
As  he  helped  her  into  her  cloak,  she  looked  reflectively 
round  the  room.  Save  that  the  windows  were  closed  to 
shut  out  the  December  fog,  save  that  there  were  chrysan- 
themums in  place  of  roses,  nothing  had  changed  since  the 
night  when  she  forced  her  way  in  and  sipped  soda-water 
from  a  heavy  goblet  and  broke  the  glass  horseshoe  and 
laughed  and  talked  and  suddenly  cried.  .  .  . 

As  he  watched,  her  bones  seemed  to  bend  like  soft  wax, 
and  she  sank  on  to  the  sofa,  burying  her  face  in  her  arms 
and  sobbing  convulsively.  Eric  stood  motionless  by  the  fire, 
because  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  move.  Her  shoulders, 
which  he  had  always  admired  for  their  line  and  wonderful 
whiteness,  rose  in  quick  jerks  and  subsided  with  a  quiver; 
she  shook  with  the  abandonment  of  a  bird  in  its  death- 
spasm. 

"Barbara!" 

"Oh,  can't  I  even  cry?"  she  moaned. 

"Darling,  you  break  my  heart  when  you  go  on  like  this !" 
He  found  himself  kneeling  on  the  floor  with  his  arm  round 
her  shoulder  and  drawing  her  head  back  until  he  could  kiss 
her  wet  cheek.  "If  you'll  shew  me  any  other  way  out  of 
it " 

"Why  can't  you  let  it  go  on  ?"  she  wailed. 

"I  can't ;  I  suppose  I  love  you  too  much." 

"Too  much  to  give  me  the  one  thing — Eric,  you're  not 
going  to  turn  me  away?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  risks  with  your  reputation." 

"But  it  would  be  just  the  same !    If  you  put  your  denial 


MORTMAIN  167 

into  the  paper,  people  would  still  go  on  talking  as  long  as 
we  went  on  meeting !  Does  it  matter  ?  Do  you  mind  it  so 
much,  Eric  ?    Oh,  my  dear,  I  can't  afford  to  lose  you !" 

She  fell  away  from  him,  and  he  walked  back  to  the  fire. 
This,  then,  was  the  moment  that  came  to  every  man  once — 
the  moment  that  he  forced  into  the  lives  of  his  puppets  once 
a  play. 

"Barbara!" 

She  was  still  shaken  with  sobs. 

"Barbara,  are  you  listening?  You  said  you'd  put  your 
hand  in  the  fire  for  me.    Well,  did  you  mean  that  ?" 

He  snapped  the  question  at  her,  and  she  was  galvanized 
to  drag  herself  upright  on  the  sofa. 

"Yes,  I  said  that." 

"You'll  do  anything  I  ask?" 

"Yes."  From  the  slow-drawn  answer  he  knew  that  more 
was  coming.  "I've  told  you  everything.  I  don't  belong  to 
myself.  .  .  .  There's  one  thing  that — ^that  I  don't  think 
you're  going  to  ask  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  know  I  trust  you.  I  always  have.  I  always 
shall.  Oh,  God  forgive  me  for  the  way  I've  treated  you  1 
But  it's  your  fault.  Whatever  I  did,  I  should  know  that  I 
could  always  trust  you  and  that  in  time  you'd  understand !" 
A  single  sob  escaped  her,  and  she  steadied  herself  like  a 
man  stopping  short  at  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  "You've 
quite  made  up  your  mind  ?  .  .  .  I  must  go  now.  Will  you 
do  something  for  me?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Won't  you  trust  nief  I  don't  want  you  to  see  me  home, 
that's  all.  It'll  remind  me  of  too  much.  Good-bye,  Eric. 
I  used  to  think  I  didn't  believe  in  God,  but  somebody's  got 
to  reward  you,  and  I  can't.  Kiss  me — quickly,  or  I  shall 
start  cr}nng  again.    Good-bye,  Eric !    Oh,  oh — my  God !" 

She  stumbled  to  the  door  and   twisted  blindly  at  the 


1 68    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

handle.  It  was  open  before  he  could  help  her.  A  grey 
wedge  of  fog  thrust  itself  past  her  as  she  hurried  out  of 
the  hall. 

"You're  not  .going  home  alone !"  he  cried. 

Half-way  down  the  first  flight  of  stairs  she  turned  with 
arms  outstretched  like  a  figure  nailed  to  a  cross. 

"My  darling ;  it's  the  last  thing  I  shall  ever  ask  you !" 


Eric  slept  little  that  night.  From  eleven  till  two  he 
walked  up  and  down  his  smoking-room,  occasionally  throw- 
ing himself  into  a  chair  for  very  exhaustion,  only  to  jump 
up  restlessly  and  resume  his  aimless  pacing.  The  fingers  of 
his  right  hand  were  yellow  from  the  cigarettes  that  he  was 
always  lighting  and  throwing  away ;  the  rest  of  him  became 
stiff  and  chilled  as  the  fire  died  down,  "As  if  I'd  murdered 
her.  .  .  ."  The  phrase,  self-coined,  repeated  itself  in  his 
brain  even  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  shaken,  nerve- 
less body  which  he  had  tried  to  revive. 

His  eyes  turned  again  and  again  to  the  telephone.  It 
would  take  Barbara  ten  minutes  to  walk  home,  perhaps 
twenty  in  the  fog;  (he  was  frightened  by  the  thought  of 
her  being  alone).  By  then  she  might  have  found  something 
to  suggest.  .  .  .  The  telephone  could  not  be  more  silent 
if  she  were  in  very  truth  dead.  He  sat  down  at  his  writing- 
table  and  addressed  an  envelope  to  her,  but  he  had  nothing 
to  put  inside  it. 

"As  if  I'd  murdered  her."  It  made  it  no  easier  that  Bar- 
bara had  begged  him  not  to  cast  her  off;  wives  sometimes 
begged  men  to  run  away  with  them.  Until  she  drove  the 
burning  cigarette-end  into  her  hand,  crying  out  that  she  was 
fighting  for  her  life,  he  had  not  understood  her  passionate 
need  of  him ;  yet,  when  her  need  was  most  passionate,  there 


MORTMAIN  169 

was  something  in  her  life  to  which  she  would  subordinate 
him.  .  .  .  The  proposal  had  been  checked  on  his  lips. 

The  telephone  was  poignantly  silent.  She  would  never 
ring  him  up  again  to  tell  him  her  plans  for  the  day,  never 
ramble  again  through  shops  and  exhibitions,  never  again 
ring  him  up  to  bid  him  good-night.  The  Thursday  dinner, 
the  Friday  luncheon,  their  notes  at  the  week-end,  the  sweet 
pride  of  possession,  her  glorious  companionship  in  his  clois- 
tered life  were  over.  For  no  one  else  had  he  ever  taken 
trouble;  now  he  was  thrown  back  on  an  insufficient  self. 
To-morrow  or  the  next  day  she  might  have  a  headache; 
never  again  would  she  give  him  a  -tired  smile  and  say, 
"Won't  you  charm  the  pain  away?" 

*'As  if  I'd  mtirdered  her."  Eric  crossed  the  hall  to  his 
bedroom.  The  front  door  was  still  open,  and  on  the  mat 
lay  Barbara's  scarf.  He  was  glad  of  an  excuse  to  postpone 
undressing  and  spent  five  minutes  lovingly  packing  it  in 
tissue  paper  for  his  secretary  to  carry  round.  It  would  be 
savagery  not  to  write  a  note.  .  .  . 

"Deepest,  you  left  this  behind.  I  hope  you  didn't  take 
cold  without  it.  It  seems  ironical  for  me  to  say  I'll  do  any- 
thing I  can  for  you.    But  it's  true.    Eric." 

He  rose  after  four  hours'  sleepless  tossing  and  distracted 
himself  by  drawing  cheques  until  the  post  was  delivered. 
There  were  many  letters,  but  none  from  Barbara.  He  read 
the  Times,  dictated  to  his  secretary,  handed  her  the 
parcel  for  Berkeley  Square  and  climbed  uneasily  out  of  bed. 
Though  he  dawdled  over  his  dressing,  there  was  no  tele- 
phone call  to  reward  him;  and,  as  the  Crawleighs  were 
spending  Christmas  in  London,  he  would  not  meet  her  in 
the  train. 

Half-way  to  Winchester  he  grew  drowsy  and  fancied 
himself  in  his  dreams  once  more  kneeling  on  the  floor  be- 


170    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

side  the  sofa,  with  his  arms  round  Barbara's  shoulders. 
"As  if  I'd  murdered  her."  His  Hps  were  moving,  as  he 
awoke,  and  he  wondered  whether  the  haunting  refrain  had 
escaped  him. 

His  sister  was  waiting  for  him  at  Winchester,  and  he 
greeted  her  with  a  confused  affection  that  struggled  to  com- 
pensate for  the  pain  which  he  had  brought  to  Barbara. 

"We  were  afraid  you  might  be  too  much  in  request  to 
come  down  here,"  said  Sybil.  "Eric,  I've  been  invited  to 
go  to  a  dance  in  London  next  week ;  I  suppose  you  wouldn't 
like  to  chaperon  me?  Mother  does  so  hate  leaving  the 
country  even  for  one  night." 

"Will  it  be  very  late  ?  I  can't  do  any  work  next  day,  if 
I  don't  get  a  little  sleep.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  haven't  chap- 
erons ceased  to  exist?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  invited  by  a  man  I  met  at  the 
Warings.  He's  quite  a  nice  creature,  but  I  can't  dine  and 
go  even  to  a  charity  ball  and  dance  with  him  all  night  abso- 
lutely on  my  own.  Mother  wouldn't  let  me,  even  if  I 
wanted  to." 

Eric  shrank  from  the  prospect  of  sleepless  hours  in  an 
overheated  room. 

"It's  surprising  what  things  are  done  nowadays,"  he  said 
without  committing  himself. 

"Surprising,  yes.  But  we're  rather  behind  the  times  in 
Lashmar.     You  wouldn't  like  me  to  go  alone,  would  you?" 

"Certainly  not!"  If  people  began  gossiping  about  Sybil 
and  her  nameless  admirer  as  they  gossiped  about  Barbara 
and  himself,  he  would  very  soon  drop  the  young  man  a 
plain  hint.  And  he  could  never  make  Barbara  see  that 
she  wanted  him  to  behave  as  he  would  allow  no  one  to 
behave  to  his  own  sister.  .  .  .  "I'll  come  if  I'm  not  already 
booked  up." 

As  he  entered  the  Mill-House,  Eric  tried  to  lose  himself 
in  the  atmosphere  of  a  place  where  he  had  spent  Christmas 


MORTMAIN  171 

for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  His  last  night  in  London 
haunted  him,  and  it  was  only  by  trying  to  console  his  mother 
for  the  absence  of  her  two  younger  boys  that  he  could  avoid 
thinking  of  Barbara.  There  was  a  busy  exchange  of  pres- 
ents after  dinner,  and  next  day  he  accompanied  his  parents 
to  church,  as  he  had  done  for  five  and  twenty  years,  finding 
peace  and  a  welcome  in  the  worm-eaten  pew,  the  cob- 
webbed  window,  the  top-heavy  decorations  and  the  familiar 
musty  books.  The  state  prayers  were  invoked  therein  on 
behalf  of  "Victoria,  Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  the 
Princess  of  Wales  and  all  the  Royal  Family."  And  there 
was  an  old  hymnal  with  a  loose  binding;  for  years  Eric 
had  slipped  one  of  the  Waverley  Novels  into  its  cover  to 
read  during  the  sermon.  .  .  .  To-day  he  listened  no  more 
to  the  sermon  than  in  other  years ;  he  wondered  what  Bar- 
bara was  doing.  .  .  . 

After  the  carols  they  lingered  in  the  churchyard  to  greet 
their  friends.  If  only  she  would  make  up  her  mind  that 
Jack  was  dead,  there  would  be  no  need  for  this  anguished 
parting;  then,  though  he  had  never  contemplated  it  until 
a  week  before,  he  could  ask  Barbara  to  marry  him.  As  yet, 
though  he  wanted  her,  he  had  still  to  find  whether  he  could 
be  content  without  her;  before  marrying,  she  must  subor- 
dinate obligation,  memory  and  conscience  to  her  need  of 
him.  .  .  .  The  Warings  were  waiting  at  the  lych-gate,  and 
he  asked  Agnes  whether  she  had  any  news  of  Jack. 

"I'll  let  you  know  when  we  have,"  she  answered,  shaking 
her  head.  "It's  nearly  six  months  now.  .  .  .  I'm  just  keep- 
ing my  mind  a  blank." 

They  turned  out  of  the  churchyard  and  walked  in  silence 
towards  Lashmar  village.  For  ten  years  they  had  always 
hurried  ahead  of  their  parents  for  a  moment  together ;  and, 
before  anything  else,  Agnes  always  thanked  him  for  her 
present.  This  year  Eric  had  given  her  nothing ;  it  was  un- 
fair to  pretend  that  there  was  no  change  of  feeling.  ,  .  . 


172    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"I  suppose  you're  as  busy  as  ever?"  she  asked  abruptly. 
"The  new  play  seems  to  be  a  great  success." 

"I  think  it's  doing  quite  well,"  he  assented.  "I  wish  I'd 
seen  more  of  you  that  night,  Agnes." 

"There  was  such  a  crowd  of  people;  we  only  put  our 
heads  into  the  box  to  congratulate  you.  Eric,  I'd  never 
seen  your  friend  Lady  Barbara  at  close  quarters  before; 
she's — bewitching." 

Without  daring  to  look  at  her  face,  Eric  tried  to  discover 
from  Agnes'  tone  whether  she  had  chosen  or  blundered  on 
such  a  word. 

"She  varies,"  he  said  judicially.  "That  night — yes,  she 
was  looking  her  best  then.  Sometimes  .  .  .  she's  not  very 
strong,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  thinking  of  their  last  night  together.  They 
walked  as  far  as  Lashmar  Common  without  speaking, 
though  he  knew  that  his  silence  betrayed  him. 

At  luncheon  Sir  Francis  proposed  the  health  of  his  absent 
sons,  and  the  afternoon  passed  in  lazy  talk  round  the  library 
fire.  The  smell  of  the  pine  logs  filled  Eric  with  old  memo- 
ries; he  slipped  on  to  a  foot-stool  and  sat  with  his  head 
resting  against  his  mother's  knees,  drowsy  and  a  little  wist- 
ful. He  wished  that  he  could  go  back  to  a  time  when  life 
was  less  complicated  and  he  could  still  confide  in  her. 

"Tired,  old  boy?"  asked  Lady  Lane,  as  she  stroked  his 
head. 

"No.  Only  thinking.  I  can  just  remember  our  first 
Christmas  here;  there  was  a  party  and  a  Christmas  tree, 
and  I  retired  to  the  terrace  and  had  a  stand-up  fight  with 
some  young  friend,  and  our  nurses  came  and  separated  us. 
A  long  time  ago,  mother !    Before  Sybil  was  bom." 

The  girl  roused  at  sound  of  her  name. 

"You're  getting  frightfully  old,  Ricky.  It's  time  you 
married  and  settled  down." 


MORTMAIN  173 

"I've  settled  down  without  marrying.  You  can't  do  both, 
you  know," 

The  drawl  in  his  voice  unconsciously  irritated  the  girl. 

"Marrying  and  shaking  up  is  more  in  your  line,"  she  re- 
torted.   "You're  too  successful,  too  rich,  too  selfish,  Ricky." 

"My  dear,  I  lead  my  life,  and  you  lead  yours.  Why 
should  either  try  to  disturb  the  other?" 

"Because  you  lead  such  a  rotten  life.  Honestly,  Ricky, 
don't  you  get  sick  of  gadding  about  night  and  day  with 
people  who  only  condescend  to  know  you  because  you're  a 
fashion  ?" 

He  smiled  lazily  at  the  uncompromising  vigour  of  her 
criticism. 

"To  begin  with,  I  don't  do  it  night  and  day " 

"Ricky,  you  simply  live  in  your  Lady  Barbara's  pocket. 
Lots  of  people  have  told  me.  If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  let 
her  make  a  fool  of  me.  After  all,  you  are  somebody.  Is 
she  going  to  marry  you?" 

"I  haven't  asked  her.    She's  a  great  friend  of  mine " 

"H'm.  Everybody  asks  me  when  you're  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. Honestly,  they  do,  Ricky.  Three  people  this  week. 
That's  why  I  say  she's  making  a  fool  of  you.  I  don't  think 
you  know  how  people  are  talking." 

"Perhaps  I  do,  but  I  didn't  know  it  had  spread  as  far  as 
here,"  he  sighed. 

"Well,  you  oughtn't  to  do  it;  and  she  oughtn't  either," 
Sybil  declared. 

Eric  gazed  long  into  the  fire  without  answering.  How  on 
earth  had  they  come  to  discuss  Babs  ?  He  had  been  dream- 
ing with  wistful  contentment  of  simpler,  less  embarrassed 
times  when  at  this  hour  a  red-faced  nurse  would  enter  and 
carry  him,  sleepily  protesting,  to  bed.  Sybil  had  somehow 
forced  the  conversation,  they  had  argued — and  his  father 
and  mother  had  listened  without  taking  part,  thereby  rang- 
ing themselves  on  Sybil's  side  or  at  least  admitting  that  she 


174    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

was  telling  them  nothing  new.  .  .  .  Sybil  was  a  tigress  for 
loyalty!  Ever  since  she  had  decided  that  he  was  to  marry 
Agnes,  she  would  have  mauled  and  clawed  any  other 
woman  who  got  in  the  way.  And  when  that  woman  trifled 
with  the  devotion  of  a  Lane  and  made  a  fool  of  one  of  the 
sacred  family  .  .  .  No  sister  ever  imagined  that  a  man 
could  take  care  of  himself.  After  all,  who  had  suffered  by 
his  tragic  intimacy  with  Barbara? 

"As  if  I'd  murdered  her."    What  was  Babs  doing  now  ? 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  pulled  himself,  stretching  and 
yawning,  to  his  feet. 

"I  shall  go  to  sleep  if  I  stay  here,"  he  said.  "Is  any  one 
going  to  dress  ?" 

Twenty  minutes  later,  when  he  came  out  of  his  bath, 
Lady  Lane  was  sitting  in  his  bedroom. 

"I  didn't  shew  you  Geoff's  last  letter,"  she  said.  "You'll 
see  he  says  something  about  'The  Bomb-Shell';  one  of  his 
friends  Tias  been  to  see  it  and  liked  it  very  much." 

Eric  propped  the  letter  against  his  looking-glass,  as  he 
began  to  dress. 

"I  say,  have  people  down  here  really  been  marrying  me 
off?"  he  asked. 

Lady  Lane's  face,  reflected  in  the  mirror,  was  passive  and 
incurious. 

"There  was  some  report  in  one  of  the  papers,  I  believe," 
she  explained.    "I  didn't  see  it  myself." 

He  volunteered  nothing,  and  his  mother  looked  indiffer- 
ently round  the  room,  now  exploring  with  her  foot  a  shabby 
place  in  the  carpet,  now  rising  to  hook  a  sagging  length  of 
curtain  to  its  ring.  She  had  come  into  his  room  to  receive 
confidences  and  to  help  him ;  his  moodiness  did  not  invite 
congratulations  and  was  troubling  her. 

"I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  remember  to  bring  some  more 
shirts  down  here,"  he  mused.  "I've  three,  four,  five  that 
I'll  give  you  for  your  bandage-class." 


MORTMAIN  175 

"I'll  take  them  gratefully,"  she  answered.  There  was  a 
pause  in  which  he  pushed  a  drawer  home,  selected  a  hand- 
kerchief and  turned  off  the  light  over  his  dressing-table; 
in  another  minute  they  would  be  downstairs,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity would  be  gone.  She  slipped  her  arm  through  his 
and  walked  to  the  door.  "There's  nothing  worrying  you,  is 
there,  Eric?" 

"I'm  afraid  I've  rather  a  faculty  for  letting  things  worry 
me,"  he  laughed.  "If  one  didn't  always  have  to  work 
against  time,  at  high  pressure " 

His  mother  was  not  deceived  into  thinking  that  work  had 
anything  to  do  with  his  mood. 

"No  new  worries?"  she  suggested.  "The  last  month  or 
two  .  .  .  You're  not  looking  well ;  that's  why  I  asked.  If 
you  ever  feel  there's  anything  I  can  do  .  .  ." 

The  subject  was  dismissed  as  she  opened  the  door.  She 
was  glad  that  she  had  given  him  no  opportunity  of  a  denial, 
for  Eric  had  always  told  her  the  truth,  hitherto. 

He  went  to  bed  early  and  fell  asleep  at  once  after  the 
restlessness  of  the  last  two  nights.  When  he  felt  his  way 
back  to  wakefulness  in  the  morning,  there  was  a  subcon- 
scious sense  that  something  important  had  happened ;  a 
moment  later  he  remembered  with  a  pang  that  he  and  Bar- 
bara had  said  good-bye. 

He  jumped  up  and  rang  for  his  shaving-water,  though  it 
was  not  yet  seven.  He  must  find  work  to  do,  he  must  keep 
himself  continuously  occupied;  otherwise  his  brain  would 
go  on  grinding  out  that  phrase  "As  if  I'd  murdered 
her."  .  .  . 


Half-way  through  the  morning  a  belated  postman 
splashed  with  expectant  Christmas  cheerfulness  to  the  Mill- 
House  and  unburdened  himself  of  a  crushed  and  tattered 


176    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

load.  Eric's  share  included  an  envelope  addressed  in  an 
unknown  writing  and  marked  "Urgent,"  "By  hand."  His 
fingers  trembled  when  he  found  a  pencilled  note  from  Bar- 
bara. 

"Christmas  Eve. 
"My  scarf  has  just  arrived.  Thank  you  for  sending  it; 
I'm  sorry  to  have  been  so  careless.  And  I'm  afraid  I  did 
catch  cold  without  it.  At  least  I'm  in  bed,  and  the  doctor 
says  he's  going  ta  keep  me  here.  I  want  you,  in  spite  of 
everything,  to  come  cmd  see  me.  Come  this  afternoon,  Eric, 
before  you  go  down  to  your  people.  lust  for  a  moment. 
I  do  want  to  see  you  so  badly.  You  won't  disappoint  me, 
will  you?  I'm  ill,  Eric,  and  so  very  lonely.  Please,  please 
come.    Barbara.'* 

He  pocketed  the  letter  and  went  on  with  the  others,  read- 
ing them  mechanically.  As  her  note  had  reached  his  flat 
after  he  had  left,  no  one  could  blame  him  for  disregarding 
her  summons ;  for  two  days  he  had  been  spared  the  neces- 
sity of  deciding  whether  it  had  to  be  disregarded;  he  had 
another  twenty-four  hours  at  Lashmar,  no  telegrams  were 
delivered  on  Boxing  Day,  and  she  had  in  fact  not  tele- 
phoned. If  the  servants  had  not  stamped  and  forwarded 
the  letter,  he  would  have  had  no  knowledge  of  it  until  his 
return  to  Ryder  Street  the  following  day. 

And  then? 

The  family  was  still  opening  parcels  and  comparing  cards 
and  almanacks  in  the  hall.  He  filled  a  pipe  and  tramped  up 
and  down  his  father's  library,  trying  to  decide  this  question 
without  losing  his  head.  She  was  ill,  he  had  promised  to 
help  her,  he  wanted  to  help  her,  he  was  glad  of  any  excuse 
that  would  spare  him  a  repetition  of  that  waking  sense  of 
loss.  So  far  from  having  murdered  her,  he  was  urged  to 
return ;  and  he  asked  nothing  better  than  to  go  back. 

And  then? 


MORTMAIN  177 

Sybil  was  right;  they  ought  neither  of  them  to  permit 
such  an  intimacy,  if  nothing  were  to  come  of  it.  Sooner 
or  later  there  would  be  unpleasantness ;  and,  instead  of  the 
one  painful  parting  which  still  haunted  him,  there  would  be 
two.  The  position  was  unchanged  from  the  time  when  he 
invited  her  to  dinner  and  delivered  his  ultimatum.  He  must 
leave  the  letter  unanswered ;  if  she  appealed  again,  he  must 
be  deaf  to  the  appeal.  There  was  no  need  to  pretend  that 
he  liked  his  choice.  She  might  have  a  chill — or  pneumonia ; 
and  henceforth  he  must  depend  on  the  newspapers  and  on 
chance-met  friends  to  find  how  she  was  and  what  she  was 
doing.  The  friends,  too,  accepting  him  as  her  guardian, 
would  be  more  likely  to  come  to  him  for  news;  he  would 
have  to  say  that  he  had  not  seen  her  for  a  week,  a  month, 
six  months.  .  .  .  And  they  would  wonder  and  gossip  about 
the  mysterious  estrangement  as  zealously  as  about  their 
"engagement";  and  the  kinder  sort,  like  Lady  Poynter,  in- 
stead of  scheming  to  bring  them  together,  would  arrange 
their  parties  with  a  tactful  eye  to  secure  that  they  did  not 
meet.  .  .  . 

Eric  paused  to  knock  out  his  pipe  and  to  reflect  that, 
as  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by 
pitying  himself  or  by  growing  angry  with  imaginary  dis- 
putants. Sir  Francis  and  Sybil  came  into  the  library  to 
begin  the  day's  work;  his  mother  rustled  to  and  fro,  giving 
her  orders.  All  that  he  had  to  do  was  to  find  an  unoccupied 
table  and  settle  down  to  work.  The  intimacy  was  over.  In 
time  he  might  care  to  think  about  it,  he  might  even  be  able 
to  meet  Barbara,  but  at  present  he  had  to  keep  his  mind 
absorbed  with  other  thoughts. 

He  had  schooled  himself  to  a  semblance  of  stoicism  when 
he  reached  his  office.  It  was  temporarily  undermined  by  a 
letter,  also  marked  "Urgent,"  "By  hand,"  which  he  found 
awaiting  him. 


178    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Christmas  Day. 
'7  suppose  you  left  London  before  my  note  arrived.  I 
sent  another  and  one  to  Lashmar,  hut  the  posts  are  so  bad 
nowadays  that  I'm  writing  to  your  office  as  well.  I  don't 
think  you  told  me  how  long  you  were  going  to  be  away,  but 
please,  I  beg  you,  come  and  see  me  just  for  a  moment  when 
you're  back  in  London.  I  must  see  you  again,  Eric.  If 
you're  not  hack  to-morrow,  you  will  be  next  day,  I'm  sure. 
Please  ring  me  up  the  moment  you  get  this.    Barbara." 

So  she  had  lain  waiting  for  him  all  Christmas  Day,  all 
Boxing  Day ;  she  was  waiting  now,  and  he  had  no  idea  how 
to  tell  her  that  he  could  not  come. 

The  telephone  rang,  and  he  was  surprised  to  hear  Amy 
Loring's  voice  instead  of  Barbara's. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Lane?  Oh,  forgive  me  for  disturbing  you 
at  your  work.  I  expect  you've  heard  that  poor  Babs  is 
ill.    Can  you  get  to  see  her  ?    She'd  like  it  so  much." 

Eric  caught  himself  resolutely  shaking  his  head  at  the 
telephone. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  impossible.  I've  been  away  for  Christ- 
mas, and  the  work  here " 

"But  can't  you  manage  a  moment?  Look  in  on  your 
way  home." 

"I'm  very  sorry;  it's  out  of  the  question."  He  paused 
and  repeated  lamely,  "I'm  very  sorry." 

Amy  sighed  and  made  a  last  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
move  him,  only  succeeding  in  reducing  him  to  a  state  of 
suppressed  irritation  which  spoiled  his  work  for  the  morn- 
ing. He  had  meant  to  call  in  Ryder  Street  before  luncheon 
to  collect  his  letters,  but  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  face 
the  appeal  which  he  knew  he  would  find  there.  It  was  hard 
enough  to  do  the  right  thing  without  being  incited  on  all 
hands  not  to  do  it — and  in  the  name  of  affection  and 
charity ! 


MORTMAIN  179 

In  the  afternoon  an  unfamiliar  voice  enquired  for  him  by 
telephone. 

"Lady  Crawleigh  speaking.  Mr.  Lane,  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me,  if  you'll  be  so  kind.  Are  you  engaged 
this  evening?" 

Eric  could  hardly  believe  that  Barbara  had  gone  the 
length  of  appealing  to  him  through  her  mother. 

"Well,  I  have  a  man  dining  with  me,"  he  improvised  ten- 
tatively. 

"Oh,  can  you  possibly  put  him  off?  I'll  tell  you  why. 
My  husband  and  I  have  to  dine  out,  and  that  means  leaving 
Babs  alone.  I'm  afraid  she's  not  a  good  patient,  and,  if 
you  could  keep  her  amused,  she'd  be  less  likely  to  get  up 
or  do  anything  foolish.  That's  what  she's  threatening  at 
present.  I  feel  it's  very  unfair  to  ask  you  to  change  all 
your  plans.  .  .  ." 

However  unfair,  she  asked  him  with  an  assurance  which 
shewed  that  she  would  not  take  a  refusal  lightly.  Eric 
smiled  grimly  to  himself.  As  if  London  was  not  full  of 
people  who  would  gladly  spend  half  an  hour  with  Barbara ! 
As  if  the  Crawleighs  could  not  have  cancelled  their  own 
engagement!  It  was  transparent,  but  he  smiled  less  at  the 
artifice  than  at  the  irony  of  his  being  dragged  to  the  house 
against  his  will  and  better  judgement.  .  .  . 

"I'd  come,  if  I  could,"  he  answered  hesitatingly.  "The 
trouble  is  that  I've  invited  this  man  for  eight  and  I  shan't 
be  able  to  get  away  from  here  till  half-past  seven  at  earliest. 
I'll  do  my  best " 

"I'm  depending  on  you,  Mr.  Lane." 

Dinner,  but  no  one  to  share  it  with  him,  had  been  ordered 
for  a  quarter  past  eight.  He  telephoned  at  seven  to  say 
that  he  might  be  a  little  late  and  set  out  for  Berkeley 
Square.  Barbara  was  alone  when  he  arrived,  and  he  en- 
tered her  room  in  some  embarrassment.  He  could  not 
imagine  Sybil's  receiving  male  visitors  in  her  bedroom,  and 


i8o    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

he  was  shy  to  find  himself  alone  with  Barbara  and  to  see 
her  lying  in  a  blue  silk  kimono  with  the  Persian  kitten  asleep 
on  a  chair  by  her  side  and  two  tables  submerged  by 
Madonna  liHes.  As  he  hesitated  on  the  threshold,  she 
smiled  wistfully  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  certain  tri- 
umphant confidence  in  her  setting. 

"I  was — very  sorry  to  hear  you  were  ill,  Babs,"  he  said. 

"I've  waited  for  you  so  long !    Won't  you  kiss  me,  Eric  ?" 

He  picked  up  the  kitten,  affecting  not  to  have  heard  her. 

"What  is  it?     A  chill?    Your  mother  said No,  I 

don't  think  she  told  me  what  it  was." 

Restraint  faltered  with  every  hesitating  word,  and  Bar- 
bara pushed  the  kitten's  cushion  on  to  the  floor. 

"Sit  down,  darling,"  she  begged. 

"I  must  go  in  a  minute,"  said  Eric,  gravely  consulting  his 
watch. 

"Who  have  you  got  dining  with  you?"  He  hesitated. 
"Any  one?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  not.  I  lied  to  your  mother. 
You  see  I  didn't  want  to  meet  you,  Babs.  I  didn't  want  to 
go  through  that  other  night  again." 

He  was  still  standing;  but,  without  noticing,  he  had 
drawn  nearer  to  the  bed,  and  she  pulled  him  gently  into  the 
chair. 

"Haven't  you  missed  me,  Eric?"  she  whispered. 

"Damnably!"  His  laugh  was  bitter.  "I  don't  see  how 
it's  to  be  avoided,  though.  And  we  only  make  things  worse 
by  prolonging  the  agony.  The  infernal  story's  spread  to 
Lashmar  now." 

Barbara's  lips  curled  assertively. 

"I'm  sorry  you  should  suffer  so  much  by  association  with 
me.  ...  If  you  aren't  expecting  any  one,  will  you  dine 
with  me,  Eric?" 

He  tried  to  review  his  position  in  the  moment  allowed 
him  before   his  answer  would  begin  to   seem  hesitating. 


MORTMAIN  i8i 

Once  in  the  house,  it  mattered  little  whether  he  stayed  one 
hour  or  three;  but  they  were  fools,  both  of  them,  to  con- 
trive or  assent  to  his  being  there.  Firmly,  if  indistinctly,  he 
felt  that  she  was  trying  to  slip  behind  the  decision  of  their 
last  meeting. 

"I'll  stay  if  you  like,"  he  said  and  watched  her  ring  the 
bell  for  her  maid.  "Babs,  are  you  well  enough  to  talk 
seriously?  I  don't  want  to  say  good-bye,  but  nothing's 
changed.  We've  the  choice  between  a  public  contradic- 
tion  " 

"Or  a  public  engagement?  Is  that  what  you're  afraid 
of?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  it." 

She  sank  lower  in  the  bed,  covering  her  eyes  with  her 
hand. 

"You've  never  asked  me  to  marry  you,"  she  said  quietly, 
this  time  without  a  taunt. 

"You  expressly  asked  me  not  to." 

"You  always — boasted  that  you  weren't  in  love  with  me." 

A  hint  of  triumph  in  her  voice  made  him  wonder  in  fear 
and  disgust  whether  this  was  the  way  in  which  she  had 
played  with  Jack  Waring.  She  was  sweeping  him  faster 
than  he  wanted  to  go;  but,  for  all  his  misgivings,  he  could 
not  stop. 

"D'you  think  either  of  us  knew  what  we  meant  to  the 
other  until  these  last  three  days  ?"  he  asked  gently.  "Every- 
thing was  too  easy  before,"  he  added,  remembering  Amy's 
warning. 

Barbara  uncovered  her  eyes  and  held  her  arms  open  to 
him. 

"I've  always  loved  you,  Eric." 

"I've  been — very  fond  of  you." 

"And  now  you  want  to  marry  me?"  she  whispered,  and 
her  eyes  shone  with  expectation. 

"D'you  want  me  to  ask  you  to?" 


1 82    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

For  a  moment  she  had  seemed  to  speak  with  passion,  but, 
before  he  could  notice  the  transition,  he  found  her  only 
trying  on  passion's  garments. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  answered  slowly.  "I  couldn't  bear  it. 
You  know  I'm  not  free!  But  do  you  want  to  give  me  up? 
You've  had  a  good  deal  of  me  since  August  and  now  you've 
had  three  days  without  me.    D'you  want  to  marry  me?" 

Eric  felt  indistinctly  that  he  was  no  longer  the  man  who 
had  come  reluctantly  to  the  house  to  do  her  a  favour ;  yet 
he  had  always  been  able  to  bring  her  to  her  knees  by  re- 
fusing to  meet  or  write  to  her ;  if  he  put  her  need  of  him 
to  the  test,  with  separation  as  an  alternative,  she  must  sur- 
render. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered. 

Her  hand  went  up  and  covered  her  eyes  again.  While  he 
waited  for  her  to  speak,  his  memory  flung  up,  one  after 
another,  the  moods  of  loss  and  loneliness  that  he  had  under- 
gone since  the  telephone  grew  silent  and  no  letter  came 
from  her.  A  warm  wave  of  tenderness  swept  over  him,  as 
he  imagined  the  glory  of  having  her  youth  and  wit  and 
beauty  entrusted  to  him. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  ask  me  that,  Eric !"  she  whispered. 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  wondering  dully  what 
she  aimed  to  achieve.  If  he  insisted  on  asking  her,  she 
would  certainly  consent;  but  he  could  not  ask  her  against 
her  will.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
women;  some,  he  had  been  told,  liked  to  be  bullied  and 
compelled,  others  were  only  to  be  won  by  yielding  and 
deference. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  ask  you  that  ?" 

"No !  For  God's  sake,  no !  If  anything  happens,  Eric — 
you  know  what  I  mean — if  I  can,  then  ask  me,  please  ask 
me!  But  not  now!  I  should  be  miserable  and  I  should 
make  you  miserable !    Eric,  be  generous !" 


MORTMAIN  183 

Her  fingers  were  pressed  deep  into  her  cheeks,  and  he 
could  see  her  bosom  rising  and  falling. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  started  this  subject,  Babs,"  he  said, 
coming  back  to  her  side.  "If  it  makes  things  easier  in  any 
way,  I'll  promise  you  solemnly  never  to  ask  you  that  ques- 
tion until  you  give  me  leave." 

She  opened  her  arms  a  second  time.  This  time  he  leaned 
forward  and  kissed  her. 

"Thank  you,  darling!" 

"And  now  I'm  going  to  give  you  your  beef-tea.  What 
made  you  talk  like  this,  Babs?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  that  you  really  loved  me." 

"You  knew  that  before." 

"I  didn't!  No,  Eric,  when  you  said  good-bye  that 
night " 

Something  in  his  expression  stopped  her.  He  had  wholly 
lost  sight  of  their  earlier  contenticm,  and  it  was  coming 
back  to  him — unsettled. 

"I'm  afraid  things  are  very  much  where  they  were  that 
night,"  he  said. 

"If  I  don't  promise  to  marry  you,  you'll  leave  me?  I 
can't  promise,  Eric — yet." 

There  seemed  a  dim,  treacherous  comfort  in  the  adverb, 
and  he  stayed  with  her. 


''Wine  amd  love  bring  a  similar  intoxication.  You  can 
refuse  to  begin  drinking,  you  can  refuse  to  begin  falling  in 
love;  (and  love  at  first  sight  of  a  woman  is  as  absurd  as  a 
morbid  craving  for  drink  at  first  sight  of  a  bottle).  You 
can  trust  that  you  will  be  able  to  say  in  time,  'I  can  no 
more.'  And  then  you  mill  find  tJiat  you  only  see  the  turn- 
ing-point when  you  aire  past  it.  The  world  then  says 
without  pity  or  understanding:  'The  man's  drunk.' " — 
From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  SIX 
dame's  school  education 


"Ann:  I  can  neither  take  you  nor  let  you  go.  .  .  .  You  must  be 
a  sentimental  old  bachelor  for  my  sake.  .  .  .  You  won't  have  a  bad 
time.  ...  A  broken  heart  is  a  very  pleasant  complaint  for  a  man 
in  London  if  he  has  a  comfortable  income." 

Bernard  Shaw:    "Man  and  Superman." 


"I  don't  know  how  lately  you've  seen  Eric,"  said  Lady 
Lane,  "but  I'm  frightened  at  the  way  he's  losing  weight." 

Dr.  Gaisford  smiled  reassuringly  and  rang  for  tea. 

"I've  ordered  him  a  complete  rest  and  change  for  three 
months." 

"But  he  won't  take  it !  The  head  of  his  department  wants 
him  to  give  a  course  of  lectures  in  America,  but  he  won't 
leave  London.  If  you're  more  in  his  confidence  than  I 
am " 

"Eric  pays  us  both  the  compliment  of  thinking  us  too 
old  to  have  eyes,  ears  or  brains — a  common  delusion  among 
boys  in  love.  No,  he's  told  me  nothing,  but  he's  visibly 
wearing  himself  out  in  adoration  of  a  very  fascinating 
young  woman ;  so,  as  he  won't  go  away,  she  shall.  There's 
no  present  cause  for  alarm." 

"I  wish  I  could  think  that.  ...  Of  course,  you  must 
never  tell  him  that  I've  been  talking  to  you  behind  his  back." 

The  warning  was  an  anticlimax  after  Lady  Lane's  des- 
perate remedy  of  coming  to  Wimpole  Street  and  presenting 
all  her  fears  and  suspicions  for  the  doctor's  diagnosis.     In 

184 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        185 

a  life-time  of  anxiety  and  effort  she  was  hardly  more  com- 
municative or  self-pitying  than  her  son;  and  Gaisford 
divined  that  more  than  ordinary  compulsion  had  sent  her 
to  him. 

"Speaking  as  a  friend  of  both  parties,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
knov^  what  the  hitch  is.  I  haven't  heard  that  the  parents 
are  making  any  trouble ;  and,  if  they  did,  I'm  afraid  naughty 
little  Barbara  would  just  snap  her  fingers  at  them." 

"You  think  she's  in  earnest?"  asked  Lady  Lane  doubt- 
fully. 

"I  do  indeed — knowing  something  of  her;  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  ...  I  hope  it  will  all  come  right.  In 
the  meantime,  she's  been  ill  and  her  father  doesn't  like  the 
way  the  Government's  conducting  the  war,  so  they're  shak- 
ing off  the  dust  of  England  for  the  Riviera.  Eric  will  have 
his  rest,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not." 

For  the  first  fifteen  months  of  the  war  Lord  Crawleigh 
had  carried  out  a  campaign,  unsparing  to  his  readers,  his 
hearers  and  himself,  to  wake  England  to  a  more  lively 
realization  of  her  perils.  His  position  and  long  record  of 
public  service  secured  him  an  undisturbed  hearing  as  he 
floundered  through  the  potentialities  of  Mittel-Europa  with 
the  aid  of  a  lantern  and  pointer;  and  his  audience  was 
usually  rewarded  for  its  patience  when  he  forsook  high 
politics  and  set  its  flesh  agreeably  creeping  with  a  perora- 
tion compounded  equally  of  German  spies  and  pro-German 
ministers.  The  campaign  throve  in  the  south,  but  slackened 
in  the  midlands  and  stopped  short  in  the  north.  At  the  same 
time  Lord  Crawleigh's  prescriptive  right  to  the  "leader" 
page  of  all  daily  papers  met  with  a  challenge  from  certain 
disrespectful  sub-editors  who  first  mislaid  him  among  for- 
eign telegrams  and  later  buried  him  ignominiously  in  small 
type.  It  was  when  a  thoughtful  exegesis  on  "The  War  and 
Indian  Home  Rule,"  extending  over  two  columns,  had  been 
held  up  for  three  days  without  acknowledgement,  apology 


i86    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

or  explanation,  that  Lord  Crawleigh  decided  to  teach  his 
countrymen  a  sharp  lesson  by  withdrawing  to  the  south  of 
France  until  the  spring. 

Any  inducement  to  leniency  was  overruled  when  Barbara 
succumbed  to  an  attack  of  pleurisy.  As  soon  as  she  was 
fit  to  move,  he  ordered  his  villa  to  be  made  ready,  set  the 
dismantling  of  his  London  house  in  hand,  closed  Crawleigh 
Abbey  and  carried  his  wife  and  daughter  to  Charing  Cross 
with  a  relentlessness  and  speed  which  gave  their  departure 
the  appearance  of  an  abduction.  The  pleurisy  developed 
four  days  after  Christmas,  and  Eric  had  not  seen  Barbara 
since  the  night  of  their  sick-room  dinner.  A  week  after 
they  reached  the  Riviera,  he  heard  a  story,  traced  without 
difficulty  to  Gerald  Deganway,  that  Lord  Crawleigh  had 
spirited  Barbara  away  from  the  danger  of  a  mesalliance. 
But,  in  wrestling  with  the  necessary  evils  of  life,  Eric  was 
finding,  as  others  had  done  before  him,  that  Gerald  Degan- 
way was  the  irreducible  minimum ;  it  was  of  greater  impor- 
tance that  for  three  months  no  one  would  have  cause  to 
gossip  about  them;  and  by  that  time  even  the  Warings 
could  not  reasonably  hope  for  tidings  of  Jack. 

Her  departure  cleared  Eric's  mind  of  its  last  misgivings 
and  convinced  him  that  Barbara  was  no  longer  a  casually 
pleasant  companion  but  an  urgently  needed  wife.  In  her 
absence,  he  was  thrown  back  on  the  bachelor  society  of  the 
Thespian  Club,  though  with  every  meal  that  he  ate  there 
came  a  growing  dread  that  he  would  be  absorbed  into  it 
until  younger  generations,  watching  him  as  he  pored  over 
the  day's  bill  of  fare  with  his  cronies  or  grew  petulant  with 
the  servants,  came  to  regard  him  as  part  of  the  club's  fur- 
niture— as  part  of  every  club's  furniture — wifeless,  child- 
less, friendless  and  uninterested,  a  bore  who  had  outstayed 
the  welcome  and  even  the  toleration  of  a  community 
founded  to  keep  his  like  from  utter  loneliness.  Sometimes, 
as  he  looked  at  the  men  who  would  never  marry,  he  won- 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        187 

dered  what  would  become  of  him  if  Jack  Waring  appeared 
suddenly,  if  Barbara  fell  in  love  with  some  one  else,  if  she 
fell  out  of  love  as  quickly  as  she  had  fallen  in  love.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  March  a  tefegram  from  Folkestone  an- 
nounced her  return  and  invited  him  to  dine  with  her. 

Eric  walked  up  the  familiar  stairs,  with  the  august  butler, 
at  whose  nod  or  frown  he  had  once  trembled,  turning  at 
intervals  to  impart  confidences  from  the  advantageous 
height  of  an  advance  stair.  ("We"  had  only  come  back  the 
day  before  and  were,  on  the  whole,  better  for  the  change. 
He  was  afraid  her  ladyship  would  hardly  be  dressed 
yet.  ...  If  Mr.  Lane  did  not  mind  waiting  a  moment.  .  .  . 
There  was  the  evening  paper.  .  .  .)  Eric  settled  himself 
with  a  comfortable  sense  of  home-coming,  his  eyes  on  Bar- 
bara's bedroom  door,  wondering  how  she  would  greet  him. 
Their  last  dinner  together  demanded  recognition  and  a 
subtile  modification  of  manner. 

"Darling,  how  are  you  after  all  this  time  ?"  Barbara  was 
on  her  knees  by  his  chair  before  he  realized  that  she  was 
in  the  room.  "When  do  you  start  ?  You  never  said  a  word 
about  it  in  your  letters." 

He  stood  up  and  pulled  her  gently  to  her  feet.  Invitingly 
she  craned  her  head  forward,  offering  him  her  lips. 

"About  what  ?" 

"Your  American  tour.  The  Vieux  boulevardier  said  you 
were  going  to  deliver  a  course  of  lectures  in  America." 

Common-form  invitations  had  reached  him  from  time  to 
time  through  his  agent,  but,  after  the  first,  he  had  relegated 
them  unread  to  the  waste-paper  basket.  And  his  depart- 
ment was  still  urging  him  abroad. 

"I've  no  intention  of  going  yet  awhile,"  he  told  her.  "It 
was  only  a  newspaper  rumour;  perhaps  some  day  I  shall 
make  it  true.  You  remember  that  there  was  another 
rumour  which  my  mother  told  me  had  in  fact  got  into 
some  provincial  rag?    Some  day  that  also  may  be  true." 


1 88    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  looked  at  her  with  a  faint, 
enquiring  smile. 

"Eric!"  she  cried  with  reproachful  warning,  though 
he  felt  that  she  was  enjoying  the  thin  ice  on  to  which 
they  had  glided. 

As  a  smile  dimpled  its  way  into  her  cheeks,  he  tired 
of  the  badinage. 

"Well,  did  you  have  a  good  time,  Babs?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"Good?  M'well.  ...  I  travelled  the  whole  way  with 
all  the  clothes  in  the  world  wrapped  round  my  throat  and 
chest.  When  I  woke  up  just  beyond  Marseilles,  it  was 
so  hot  that  I  threw  off  one  thing  after  another,  until  I'd 
got  down  to  a  blouse  and  skirt.  Next  morning,  there  was 
a  glorious  hot  sun.  ...  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran 
bare-foot  into  the  verandah  and  stood  there — don't  be 
shocked,  darling! — in  my  night-gown,  stretching  out  my 
arms  to  gather  all  the  heavenly  warmth.  I  couldn't  have 
coughed  if  you'd  paid  me  to.  It  was  divine,  but  I  sud- 
denly discovered  there  was  one  thing  wanting.  Can  you 
guess  what  it  was?" 

"From  your  description,  most  things  were  wanting." 

"Darling,  if  you're  prosaic,  I  just  shan't  talk  to  you.  I 
discovered  that  I  wanted  some  one  to  share  it  with.  If 
you  knew  the  glorious  feeling  of  standing  bare-foot  on 
hot  marble!  I  wanted  you,  Eric!  I  always  want  you 
when  I'm  happy,  because  I  must  share  my  happiness  with 
some  one;  and  I  want  you  when  I'm  unhappy,  because 
I'm  too  proud  to  shew  my  unhappiness  to  any  one  who 
doesn't  love  me.  I  hate  the  second-best  and  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you  again !" 

Eric  considered  her  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  cautiously  and  without  committing 
himself. 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        189 

"Well,  Babs,  if  you  don't  always  have  me  at  hand  for 
all  your  moods  and  all  your  needs " 

"Yes  ?" 

He  turned  away  to  knock  the  ash  from  his  cigarette 
and  to  avoid  a  possible  change  of  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"My  dear,  you'll  have  only  yourself  to  blame." 

"I  know.  Bless  you,  dear  Eric.  Somehow,  I  was  afraid 
you  might  have  changed.  Thinking  of  you  all  those  miles 
away,  I  felt  you  were  too  good  to  be  true.  Let's  go  down 
to  dinner.  You've  only  got  me,  I'm  afraid.  Will  you  be 
bored?" 

"I  don't  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  smiling;  but,  in- 
definably, he  was  disappointed. 


The  Crawleighs  spent  a  month  in  London  before  re- 
pairing to  Hampshire  for  the  summer. 

"Make  the  most  of  me,"  said  Barbara,  when  her  father's 
decision  was  made  known.  "You  may  never  see  me 
again." 

"I  wonder  whether  you'd  mind,"  Eric  mused.  "Don't 
you  sometimes  feel  that  I've  served  my  turn?" 

"That's  a  horrid  thing  to  say!  If  anything  took  you 
out  of  my  life  .  .  .  Say  you're  sorry  this  very  moment!" 

Eric  laughingly  complied,  but  he  could  not  easily  shake 
off  his  disappointment  that  Barbara  had  come  back  after 
three  months  without  nerving  herself  to  make  a  decision. 
Though  Jack  Waring's  name  was  still  never  mentioned,  he 
felt  that  she  was  increasingly  unreasonable  in  honouring 
any  superstitious  obligation  to  his  memory.  A  vague, 
resentful  impatience  ruffled  the  serenity  of  their  meet- 
ings; and,  though  they  plotted  to  lunch  or  dine  together 
daily  and  counted  the  remaining  hours  with  jealous  con- 


190    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

cem,  Eric  was  shocked  to  find  himself  secretly  relieved 
when  Barbara  said  "Only  another  week." 

"I've  not  seen  very  much  of  you,"  he  grumbled  in- 
consistently.    "Why  don't  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow?" 

Barbara  had  undergone  some  transformation  in  the  last 
six  months  until  she  seemed  hardly  to  need  him.  In  the 
old  days  she  was  a  slave  to  be  summoned  by  a  clap  of 
the  hands;  but,  since  he  had  healed  her  spirit,  she  was 
a  queen  to  be  courted. 

"I'll  come,  if  you  like,"  she  said.  "It  means  throwing 
over  George  Oakleigh.  And  I  haven't  seen  him  since  I 
came  back." 

"I  shouldn't  dream  of  asking  you  to  do  that.  I've 
chosen  an  unfortunate  day.  I've  chosen  rather  a  lot  of 
unfortunate  days  lately,"  he  added. 

"Is  that  very  gracious,  Eric?    I've  said  I'll  come." 

The  desire  to  get  his  own  way  and  the  growing  need  of 
her  struggled  confusedly  with  the  resolve  to  be  patient 
and  the  politic  determination  to  court  her  as  a  queen. 

"No,  you  keep  to  your  original  plan,"  he  advised  her; 
and  then,  with  thinly-veiled  taunt,  "It's  funny  to  look 
back  on  the  old  days,  when  you  were  miserable  if  twelve 
hours  passed  without  our  meeting.  D'you  remember  when 
you  used  to  say  how  much  you  needed  me?" 

"I  need  you  still,"  she  answered,  wondering  at  his  new 
irritability. 

"You  got  on  very  comfortably  without  me  at  the  Cap 
Martin " 

"I  should  have  been  very  uncomfortable  if  I  hadn't 
known  that  you  were  thinking  of  me,  waiting  for  me,  lov- 
ing me,  even " 

"And  you'll  get  on  very  comfortably  when  you're  at 
Crawleigh  Abbey,"  he  persisted.     "And  to-morrow " 

"I've  said  I'll  come  to-morrow.  Eric,  you're  not  jealous 
of  my  dining  with   other  people?     You're  talking  as  if 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        191 

you  were  trying  to  pick  a  quarrel.  You  were  always  so 
sweet.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  conscious  of  having  changed,"  he  answered 
stiffly. 

But  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  her.  While  he  was 
still  indifferent,  she  had  prostrated  herself  before  him; 
when  he  confessed  his  love,  she  gathered  up  his  own  cast 
robes  of  indifference.  It  was  feminine  nature,  and  her 
"education"  of  him  was  at  least  illustrating  the  sex-gen- 
eralizations which  a  man  ought  to  have  learned  before 
leaving  his  dame's-school. 

"Don't  let's  quarrel,  darling!"  she  begged.  "Whatever 
you  ask,  I'll  do!  But,  when  I  give,  I  want  to  give  every- 
thing.   Won't  you  be  patient  with  me?" 

Ever  since  her  return  to  England,  Eric's  nerves  had 
been  strained  until  he  found  it  first  difficult  and  then  im- 
possible to  work  or  sleep.  When  he  met  her,  there  was 
always  some  trifling  cause  of  annoyance;  when  he  stayed 
away,  there  was  hunger  and  loneliness. 

"I  wonder  how  long  you'd  like  me  to  be  patient,"  he 
murmured. 

"Before  I  marry  you?  Is  that  what  you  mean?  Eric, 
I  promise  in  the  sight  of  God  that  I'll  marry  you  as  soon 
as  I  can  do  it  with  a  good  conscience.  You  don't  want 
me  to  be  haunted  all  my  life.  And  now,  when  we  even 
speak  of  it  .  .  .  It's  my  punishment." 

"I'm  sorry,  Barbara.  I've  made  you  look  quite  miser- 
able." 

She  bent  his  head  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"I've  never  been  really  miserable  since  I  knew  that  you 
loved  me,"  she  whispered. 

Though  the  quarrel  was  composed,  the  taut  nerves  were 
still  unrelaxed;  and,  after  two  more  nights  of  insomnia, 
Eric  was  driven  to  consult  his  doctor.  The  examination, 
with  its  attendant  annoyances  of  sounding  and  questioning, 


192    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

weighing  and  measuring,  was  tiresomely  thorough;  but 
at  the  end  Gaisford  could  only  suggest  change  of  scene 
and  occupation. 

"I'm  not  a  good  subject  for  rest,"  Eric  objected. 

"I'm  not  sending  you  into  a  home,"  said  Gaisford. 
"Why  not  go  out  to  California  for  six  months?  You  can 
scribble  there  as  well  as  anywhere." 

"If  I  work  at  all,  it  ought  to  be  this  propaganda  job," 
Eric  suggested. 

"Then  do  your  propaganda  job  elsewhere.  I  want  to 
iget  you  out  of  London.  Do  you  want  me  to  speak 
frankly?  You're  seeing  much  too  much  of  an  exceedingly 
attractive  young  woman.  If  you're  going  to  marry  her, 
marry  her;  if  not,  break  away.  Flesh  and  blood  can't 
stand  your  present  life." 

Eric  left  him  without  giving  a  pledge,  because  he  felt 
too  tired  for  the  effort  of  going  away  from  Barbara  for 
six  months.  Since  he  had  reduced  his  hours  of  work, 
there  was  no  excuse  for  this  everlasting  sense  of  limp 
fatigue;  granted  the  fatigue,  there  was  no  excuse  for  his 
not  sleeping.  The  doctor  had  paid  curiously  little  atten- 
tion to  the  insomnia  and  was  childishly  intei'ested  in  mak- 
ing him  blow  down  a  tube  and  register  the  cubic  capacity 
of  his  lungs.  There  had  never  been  a  hint  of  phthisis  in 
the  family,  but  the  medical  profession  could  be  trusted  to 
recommend  six  months  in  California  when  a  man  needed 
only  one  injection  of  morphia  to  secure  a  night's  sleep. 

He  had  forgotten  Gaisford  and  his  advice  when  Bar- 
bara came  to  say  good-bye  on  her  last  day  in  London. 

"My  dear,  have  you  been  ill?"  she  asked  with  concern. 
"I've  been  told  to  use  my  influence  to  get  you  away  for 
a  holiday.  What's  been  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know.  And  Gaisford  shouldn't  discuss  one 
patient  with  another.  He  wants  me  to  go  to  California  for 
six  months." 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        193 

"Then  you'll  go?  You  must  go!"  Barbara's  eyes  were 
wide  with  distress.    "I  insist!" 

"I'm  thinking  it  over,"  he  answered,  a  little  startled. 
"I'm  not  a  bit  keen  to  leave  you,  Babs." 

"D'you  think  I'm  keen  to  lose  you?    Darling  Eric,  if 
you  know  what  you  mean  to  me  .  .  .  But  you've  got  to 
get  well!" 
.  "I  don't  know  why  California  should  make  the — wait- 
ing any  easier." 

"Ah,  don't  say  I've  made  you  ill!  I'll  say  *y^s,* 
Eric.  .  .  .  Now.  .  .  .  But  I  should  only  be  able  to  give 
you  a  little  piece  of  myself,  I  should  always  be  divided. 
...  I  don't  think  you  really  want  that,  and  you'd  be 
simply  wretched  if  you  found  you'd  spoiled  my  life  after 
saving  it.  .  .  .  Eric,  don't  hurry  me?  It's  only  April. 
Wait  till  twelve  months  have  gone  by  since  the — news.  If 
there's  no  further  news  .  .  .  Wait  till — my  birthday!" 

Next  morning,  Barbara  departed  to  Crawleigh  Abbey, 
and  for  a  month  they  did  not  meet.  As  spring  budded  and 
blossomed  into  summer,  Eric  counted  the  days  that  sep- 
arated him  from  the  fulfilment  of  her  promise.  There 
was  no  reason  for  him  to  be  anxious;  but  his  mind  was 
filled  with  nervous  images,  and  imagination  suggested  a 
thousand  fantastic  ways  in  which  Barbara  might  be 
snatched  from  him.  As  her  birthday  drew  near,  he 
forced  a  meeting  with  Agnes  Waring  and  once  more  asked 
if  there  was  any  news  of  Jack. 

"Nothing  yet,"  she  answered.     "A  long  time,  isn't  it?" 

"Very  long.  .  .  ."  He  hated  himself  for  the  hypocrisy  of 
this  conventional  solicitude,  when  he  was  only  impatient 
for  authentic  news  that  his  best  friend  was  dead.  "You'll 
let  me  know  .  .  .   ?" 

"Of  course  I  will,  Eric,"  Agnes  answered.  "I  don't 
know  when " 

Her  undramatic  courage,  reinforced  by  his  own  sense  of 


194    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

make-believe  sympathy,  restored  him  to  sincerity.  Though 
he  had  never  been  in  love  with  Agnes — as  Barbara  had 
taught  him  to  understand  the  term — he  was  still  fond  of 
her. 

"I  wish  you  came  to  London  sometimes,"  he  said,  beat- 
ing his  stick  against  the  side  of  his  boot.  "It  would 
make  a  little  bit  of  a  break  for  you.  Will  you  let  me  give 
you  dinner  and  take  you  to  a  play?" 

It  was  the  first  time  in  eight  months  that  he  had  made 
her  any  sign  of  affection,  and  she  looked  at  him  curiously. 
Eric  wondered  whether  she  imagined  that  he  had  failed 
elsewhere  and  was  drifting  back  to  her. 

"Somehow  I  hardly  feel "  she  began.  "Dick  Ben- 
yon — ^you  remember  we  brought  him  over  to  dine  with 
you? — ^wanted  me  to  come.  .  .  ." 

"It  can't  do  any  harm." 

"It  can't  do  any  harm,  certainly.  I'll  talk  to  mother 
about  it." 

Two  days  later  she  wrote  to  suggest  a  night,  and  Eric 
felt  that  he  had  involuntarily  succeeded  where  young 
Benyon  had  failed ;  a  week  later  he  was  waiting  for  her 
in  the  lounge  of  the  Carlton.  Though  she  had  stipulated 
for  a  seven  o'clock  dinner  so  that  they  should  be  in  their 
places  before  the  curtain  went  up,  half-past  seven  had 
struck  before  she  hurried  in  with  breathless  apologies. 

"It's  all  right,  but  I'm  afraid  your  cocktail  will  be 
tepid,"  he  said.  "I  ordered  it  beforehand  to  save  time. 
I  suppose  you  couldn't  get  a  taxi." 

"Yes."  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  for  support  and 
walked  with  the  same  breathlessness  into  the  restaurant. 
"My  head's  in  a  whirl.  ...  I  nearly  telephoned  to  say 
I  couldn't  come — but  I  didn't  see  what  good  that  would  do. 
Eric,  I  want  you  to  straighten  this  out  for  me;  Jack  was 
reported  missing  on  the  27th " 

"Of  August.     Last  year.     Yes." 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        195 

"Well,  father  had  a  letter  from  Cranborae's  the  army 
bankers,  just  before  I  left  this  morning,  to  say  that  a 
cheque  had  come  in — through  Holland,  I  think — dated 
October  the  9th.  Apparently  a  lot  of  people  are  traced 
in  that  way,  and  Cranborne's  wanted  father  to  know  as 
soon  as  possible.  They  sent  the  cheque  and  asked  father 
to  look  at  it  very  carefully  and  say  if  he  was  satisfied 
that  it  was  Jack's  signature;  then  they'd  know  what  to  do 
about  it  or  something.  .  .  ." 

Eric  looked  at  her  unwaveringly  and  bade  her  finish  her 
story.  He  tried  to  tell  himself  that  he  had  always  ex- 
pected and  discounted  this. 

"I  brought  the  cheque  with  me  and  had  a  long  talk  with 
one  of  the  partners.  That's  why  I'm  so  late.  There's  no 
doubt  about  it,  Eric!  Mr.  Cranbome — told  me — as  a 
banker — that  he  was  prepared  to  honour  the  cheque — is 
that  the  phrase? — as  being  signed  by  Jack — on  that  day. 
What  does  it  mean,  Eric?    I  want  you  to  explain  it  all." 

A  voluble  waiter  was  gesticulating  and  seeking  instruc- 
tions about  the  wine. 

"Oh,  open  it  now!"  Eric  exclaimed  without  turning 
round.  A  moment  later  the  champagne  was  creaming 
slowly  up  his  glass.  He  drained  it,  coughed  once  and  col- 
lected himself. 

"Let's  first  hear  what  Cranbome  said,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  he  had  all  sorts  of  theories!  That  Jack  had  lost 
his  memory — he  remembered  his  name  all  right — ;  that 
some  one  had  found  the  cheque  on  his  body  after  the 
push  and  altered  the  date — a  cheque  for  ten  pounds — ; 
that  he'd  tried  to  escape,  and  those  brutes  had  punished 
him  by  not  letting  us  know  he  was  a  prisoner.  ...  It 
doesn't  matter,  does  it,  Eric?  He's  alive!  That's  what  I 
want  you  to  say  to  me !    He's  alive!" 

"He  was  alive  on  the  ninth  of  October,"  he  amended. 

"Weeks  after  the  push?    Then  he's  alive  now!     Isn't 


196    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

he,  Eric?  He  must  be!  I  was  right  in  believing.  .  .  . 
Eric,  will  you  think  me  an  awful  pig,  if  we  waste  the 
tickets  to-night?  I'd  so  much,  much  sooner  sit  and  talk 
to  you.  It's  so  wonderful !  It's  like  a  man  rising  from 
the  dead !    It's " 

"You  must  get  some  food  inside  you,"  he  ordered 
prosaically.  "Take  your  time.  Don't  try  to  tell  me  all 
about  it  in  one  breath." 

She  gulped  a  mouthful  of  fish  and  looked  up  with  brim- 
ming eyes. 

"Oh,  Eric,  if  you  only  understood  what  it  meant.  .  .  ." 
Her  expression  changed  to  blank  fear.  "You  do  believe 
he's  still  alive?" 

"I  do."  He  bent  down  and  fumbled  for  the  wine  with 
a  needless  clatter  in  the  ice-pail.  "Agnes,  for  your  sake, 
for  all  your  sakes,  I'm  very,  very  glad!" 


The  next  morning  Eric  called  on  Dr.  Gaisford  in  Wim- 
pole  Street  before  going  to  his  office.  His  brain  felt 
numbed,  and  he  had  to  speak  with  artful  choice  of  words 
to  prevent  being  tripped  up  by  a  stammer.  The  doctor 
looked  once  at  his  drawn  face  and  pink  eye-lids,  then 
pushed  a  chair  opposite  his  own  and  tidied  away  his 
papers. 

"I  suppose  you  hm/e  breakfasted,  by  the  way  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I'm  not  much  of  a  breakfast-eater,"  Eric  an- 
swered. "You  must  forgive  a  very  early  call,  Gaisford; 
it's  so  hard  for  me  to  get  away  during  the  day.  Well,  it's 
the  old  trouble;  I'm  sleeping  abominably.  I  took  your 
wretched  medicine,  but  it  didn't  have  any  effect." 

"H'm.     You  did  not  take  my  advice  to  go  right  away." 

"It  hasn't  been  practicable  so  far.  I  may  go — quite 
soon.     But  I've  a  certain  number  of  things  to  finish  off 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        197 

and  I  want  to  be  absolutely  at  my  best  for  them."  He 
moistened  his  lips  and  repeated  "I  want  to  be  absolutely  at 
my  best  for  them.  I've  been  rather  worried  and  I've  lost 
confidence  in  myself." 

Gaisford  listened  to  his  symptoms,  asked  a  few  ques- 
tions and  set  about  his  examination.  At  the  end  he  made 
a  note  in  his  card-index  and  wrote  out  a  prescription. 

"If  you're  not  careful,"  he  said  deliberately,  as  he 
blotted  it,  "you'll  have  a  bad  break-down.  Now,  I  never 
tell  people  to  do  things,  when  I  know  they're  going  to  dis- 
obey me ;  I  shan't  order  you  to  California  to-day,  I  shan't 
knock  you  off  all  work.     But  how  soon  can  you  go?" 

"Oh — a  week,  if  I  have  to,"  Eric  answered  carelessly. 

"Then  go  in  a  week.  Your  own  work,  your  writing — 
can  you  drop  that  absolutely?  It's  far  more  exhausting — 
anything  creative — than  your  office-work.  And  what's 
your  minimum  for  your  office?  Don't  do  a  stroke  more 
than  the  minimum.  As  regards  your  general  mode  of 
life  ..." 

He  ordained  a  rigid,  but  familiar,  rule  of  diet,  exercise 
and  rest;  and  Eric's  attention  began  to  wander.  As  well 
bid  him  add  a  cubit  to  his  stature!  He  wondered  how 
much  Gaisford  suspected.  .  .  . 

He  became  aware,  in  mid-reverie,  that  the  doctor  had 
finished  speaking. 

"And  I'm  to  take  this  stuff?"  Eric  tried  to  read  the 
prescription.  "Strychnine — Is  that  right?  Iron?  Bro- 
mide? I  can't  make  a  guess  at  the  other  things.  I  say, 
Gaisford,  will  this  make  me  sleep?" 

A  hint  of  despair  in  his  voice  was  not  lost  on  the  doc- 
tor. 

"I  hope  so.  It  will  tone  up  your  nervous  system.  But 
it's  only  for  a  week,  mind!  That's  the  limit  of  your 
reprieve  before  you  go  away.  Don't  imagine  that  stimulants 
and  sedatives  take  the  place  of  natural  food  or  rest.    What- 


198    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

ever — odds  and  ends  you  have  to  clear  up  must  be  cleared 
up  within  the  next  week." 

Eric  nodded  and  held  out  his  hand.  Gaisford  had  un- 
derstood, then.  .  .  .  He  wondered  how  long  the  medicine 
would  take  to  "tone  up"  his  nerves,  for  he  had  written  a 
telegram  to  Barbara  the  night  before,  as  soon  as  Agnes 
left  him. 

He  walked  to  his  office,  trying  to  face  the  position  more 
clearly  than  he  had  been  able  to  do  in  the  night.  Why 
fret  and  worry?  Barbara's  "solemn  promise"  had  already 
been  broken  in  spirit;  if  she  kept  it  in  form,  she  would 
be  haunted  by  a  new  memory,  the  intrusive  shadow  would 
take  on  a  more  terrific  outline.  There  was  no  proof  that 
Jack  was  alive  .  .  .  but  Eric  believed  without  proof;  no 
certainty  that  he  would  present  his  claim  .  .  .  but  Bar- 
bara would  see  nothing  but  certainty.  Two  allegiances, 
two  promises  .  .  .  and  no  one  could  tell  which  she  would 
choose. 

Eric  was  walking  blindly  through  streets  which  only 
his  feet  recognized.  Regency  Theatre.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
been  heading  for  Whitehall.  He  would  never  go  to  the 
Regency  again  without  seeing  her — either  a  head  leaning 
against  his  knee  at  rehearsal  as  they  sat  on  a  platform 
over  the  orchestra,  or  in  their  box,  hand  in  hand,  as  on 
the  first  night  of  "The  Bomb-Shell,"  when  his  nerves  were 
jangling  like  the  broken  wires  of  a  harp;  he  could  never 
go  to  Mrs.  Shelley's  house  without  hearing  her  singing 
Madame  Butterfly's  song — and  without  some  fool's  ask- 
ing if  he  had  seen  anything  of  Lady  Barbara  lately.  .  .  . 

A  telegram  was  waiting  for  him,  when  at  last  he  reached 
his  office:  Barbara  would  come  up  that  day  and  dine 
with  him ;  she  hoped  that  he  had  received  no  bad  news.  .  .  . 
Eleven  o'clock;  and  he  would  not  see  her  until  eight.  He 
was  too  restless  to  work  and  at  one  o'clock  he  handed  his 
papers  to  a  colleague  and  slunk  into  the  street.    His  foot- 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        199 

steps  were  turned  towards  the  Thespian  Club;  but  he 
could  not  pass  the  hall-porter  without  looking  for  a  note, 
as  on  the  night  when  he  dined  in  his  triumph  with  Lord 
Ettrick;  he  could  not  see  a  page-boy  without  expecting  to 
find  that  Barbara  had  telephoned  to  him.  .  .  . 

Half-way  across  the  Horse  Guards'  Parade,  he  encoun- 
tered George  Oakleigh. 

"Hallo !  Come  and  have  some  lunch  with  me,  if  you've 
nothing  better  to  do,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  a 
long  time." 

"Not  since  we  met  at  Barbara  Neave's,"  answered  Oak- 
leigh.    "Where  is  she?    I've  quite  lost  sight  of  her." 

"They're  all  down  at  Crawleigh,"  said  Eric.  Every  one 
would  come  to  him  as  the  leading  authority  on  Barbara's 
movements.  "What  about  the  Carlton?  I  can  usually 
get  hold  of  a  table." 

As  they  entered  the  lounge,  Eric  wondered  why  he  had 
chosen  this  of  all  places.  Last  night's  ordeal  should  have 
kept  him  away  for  ever;  and  the  band  was  playing  a  waltz 
which  he  had  heard  when  Barbara  dined  with  him  on  her 
return  from  the  Cap  Martin,  Music,  especially  the  seduc- 
tiveness of  the  waltz  rhythm,  was  bad  enough  at  any  time 
when  one  needed  to  keep  one's  nerves  unstimulated.  .  .  . 

When  Oakleigh  returned  to  the  Admiralty,  Eric  stood 
aimlessly  in  Trafalgar  Square,  wondering  what  to  do.  It 
was  too  late  for  a  matinee;  and  theatres  were  all  becom- 
ing reminiscent  of  Barbara.  He  had  long  meant  to  order 
a  new  dessert-service  and  was  only  waiting  until  Barbara 
was  in  London  again.  Perhaps,  that  night,  they  would 
be  saying  good-bye  for  ever;  he  could  no  longer  tell  him- 
self stories  of  the  life  that  he  wanted  her  to  share  with 
him.  Perhaps,  when  she  came  to  choose  a  dessert-service, 
it  would  be  with  some  one  else ;  she  would  give  to  some 
one  else  all  that  she  had  given  him,  all  that  she  had  been 
unable  to  give  him.  .  .  . 


200    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

He  was  home  before  he  knew  that  he  was  even  walking 
homewards  and  thankful  when  his  housekeeper  came  to 
discuss  dinner.  He  chose  a  cigar  and  at  once  put  it  back 
in  the  box.  His  hand  was  shaking;  and,  if  he  once  began 
to  smoke,  he  would  never  stop.  Stimulants  and  sedatives, 
he  must  remember,  were  not  the  same  as  natural  food  and 
rest;  therefore  he  had  drunk  nothing  at  luncheon,  there- 
fore he  would  not  smoke  now.  There  was  nothing  that 
he  could  do;  and  Barbara's  train  did  not  reach  Waterloo 
for  another  hour.  ;  .  . 

His  sense  of  time  became  dulled:  Barbara  was  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  before  he  had  even  thought  of  dress- 
ing. 

"My  dear!  I  expected  to  find  you  in  bed!  How  dare 
you  give  me  such  a  fright?  When  I  got  your  telegram 
this  morning — oh,  I'm  out  of  breath!  I  ran  all  the  way 
upstairs! — you'd  been  saying  that  you  felt  so  ill!  Tell 
me  what  it's  all  about.  I  had  the  most  awful  difficulty 
with  father  about  getting  away;  he  couldn't  make  out  why 
I  always  wanted  to  rush  up  to  London  just  when  he'd  got 
people  staying  down  there " 

"I  didn't  mean  to  work  on  your  emotions,"  said  Eric,  • 
as  he  helped  her  out  of  her  cloak. 

"Sweetheart,  whatever  I  was  doing,  you  know  I'd  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  if  you  were  ill.  But  I'm 
afraid  father'll  think  me  a  fraud.  It'll  be  your  fault  if 
I  can't  get  away  next  week." 

Eric  had  to  think  for  a  moment  before  he  recalled  that 
her  birthday  fell  in  the  following  week.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  referred  even  indirectly  to  it  on  her 
own  initiative.  He  looked  at  her  closely,  but  her  face 
revealed  only  high  spirits  and  a  radiant  pleasure  in  being 
with  him  again. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  over  one  or  two  things  with  you,"  he 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        201 

explained.  "We  shall  start  fairer  if  you  don't  feel  you're 
under  any  obligation  to  me " 

She  caught  hold  of  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  shall  always  feel  that,  Eric." 

"Well,  for  to-night  I  want  you  to  feel  quite  unem- 
barrassed. I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Jack  Waring.  He 
was  reported  missing  last  August." 

Barbara's  face  grew  suddenly  grave;  and,  in  a  whisper, 
she  supplied  the  date. 

"Well,  his   sister  dined  with  me  last  n-night " 

Eric  stopped  as  he  caught  himself  stammering,  but  Bar- 
bara laid  her  hand  imploringly  on  his  arm. 

"Go  on !"  she  cried.    "I  can  stand  it !" 

"They  don't  know  whether  he's  alive  or  dead."  Her 
hands  were  slowly  withdrawn  from  her  cheeks,  her  face 
regained  its  composure,  and  she  resettled  herself,  still 
breathing  a  little  quickly,  on  the  sofa.  "They  know 
nothing,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "But  there's  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  he  wasn't  killed  at  the  time  when  he  was  re- 
ported missing.  There's  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
alive  at  the  beginning  of  October." 

Still  standing  with  his  shoulders  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece,  Eric  told  her  slowly  and  colourlessly  of  the 
belated  cheque.  At  the  end  she  sat  watching  him  in  si- 
lence. She  too,  surely,  was  trying  to  convince  herself  that 
this  was  what  she  had  always  expected.  .  .  . 

"That's  all  I  know.  That's  all  his  people  know,"  he 
added. 

"But  October.  .  .  .  June.  .  .  .  Why  hasn't  he  written?" 

"You're  assuming  he's  alive.  We  don't  know.  He  may 
have  been  badly  wounded,  he  may  have  died  of 
wounds " 

"But  if  he  was  well  enough  to  write  a  cheque?" 

"I  don't  pretend  to  explain  it.  His  sister  threshed  it 
all  out  at  the  bank  yesterday;  she  and  I  threshed  it  all  out 


202    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

again  last  night.  And  we're  none  the  wiser — except  that 
on  the  ninth  of  October  he  drew,  dated  and  signed  a  cheque. 
I  think  that's  certain.  There's  no  doubt  about  the  signa- 
ture, and  no  one  would  trouble  to  forge  a  cheque  for  ten 
pounds.  ...  I  always  promised  to  let  you  know  as  soon 
as  I  had  any  news,  Babs." 

She  nodded  and  pressed  her  knuckles  into  her  eyes. 

"October  to  June  .  .  .  instead  of  August  to  June,"  she 
murmured  at  length.  "And  not  a  word  of  any  kind.  What 
do  his  people  ...   ?" 

"He'll  now  be  published  as  'Previously  reported  miss- 
ing, now  reported  to  be  missing  and  a  prisoner.'  They 
don't  know  what  to  think  any  more  than  we  do." 

She  sighed  and  then  looked  up  to  him  with  a  grateful 
smile. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,  Eric." 

He  turned  away  and  moistened  his  lips. 

"You  mustn't  forget  that  it  affects  my  own  position," 
he  warned  her. 

The  smile  faded  from  her  face,  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  startled  eyes. 


It  was  a  silent  dinner,  for  Eric  was  exhausted  and  Bar- 
bara was  thinking  deeply.  Nearly  a  year  ago,  when  Jack 
was  first  missing,  she  seemed  to  have  lived  through  all 
these  emotions,  to  have  been  tossed  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  her  dreams  like  a  plaything  of  the  gods  at  sport. 
For  twelve  months  she  had  been  sick  with  longing  to  know 
whether  he  still  wanted  her;  and,  when  the  gods  had 
tortured  her  to  madness,  they  let  her  think  that  the  cruel 
game  was  over.  She  dreamed  again  of  happiness,  seeing 
herself  as  a  child;  another  child,  the  very  symbol  of  love 
and  forgiveness,  came  to  bring  her  peace,  and  they  played 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        203 

together  in  the  sun-drenched  loveliness  of  a  dream.  Then 
the  gods  flung  a  shadow  before  her  feet.  In  dream  after 
dream  her  child-lover  begged  her  to  stay,  but  the  shadow 
parted  them  and  urged  her  forward.  In  time  she  realized 
that  it  was  Jack's  shadow.  .  ,  . 

Never  were  dreams  more  vivid.  She  knew  each  note 
of  her  lover's  voice  as  he  begged  her  to  stay  and  let  him 
make  her  happy;  and  night  after  night  she  awoke  to  find 
herself  stifling  in  the  embrace  of  the  shadow.  Every  one 
thought  that  she  was  dying;  she  herself  knew  that  she  was 
being  driven  mad;  and,  when  the  gods  saw  that  she  could 
bear  no  more,  they  filled  the  world  with  a  blaze  of  light 
which  banished  dream  and  shadow. 

"I  hoped  God  had  forgotten  me,"  she  whispered.  "I've 
been  happy  too  long.    What  am  I  to  do,  Eric?" 

"You  must  follow  your  inclination." 

She  sighed  and  looked  away  into  the  shadows  beyond 
the  table. 

"My  inclination's  always  to  do  what  you  want.  .  .  . 
I'm  glad  for  both  our  sakes  that  this  came  when  it  did. 
I  couldn't  have  made  you  happy  while  I  was  uncer- 
tain. .  .  ." 

"And,  if  the  war  ended  to-morrow  and  Jack  came  back 
safe  and  sound  next  week,  what  then?" 

"It  depends  on  him.  I  gave  him  my  solemn  promise, 
when  I  was  trying  to  make  reparation." 

"And  I  don't  count  at  all.  After  all  our  love,  you  could 
forget  me " 

"I  could  never  forget  you,  sweetheart." 

"But — you're  willing  to  tryf"' 

"What  else  can  I  do  ?  Oh,  what  a  muddle  I've  made  of 
our  lives !" 

Eric  had  determined  to  be  patient  and  restrained;  but 
his  voice,  uncontrolled  and  scornful,  seemed  to  come  from 
a  distance. 


204    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Will  you  make  it  any  better  by  keeping  faith  with  Jack 
and  breaking  it  with  me?  You'll  be  unhappy  all  your 
life,  you'll  never  forgive  yourself,  you'll  never  forget  the 
wrong  you've  done  me,  if  you  marry  any  one  else!" 

Barbara's  eyes  filled  with  fear. 

"You  speak  as  if  you  were  putting  a  curse  on  me!" 

"I  don't  believe  in  curses  or  blessings  or  luck  or  your 
other  superstitions.  I'm  warning  you — and  I'll  add  this. 
You  once  undertook  my  education,  but  I  think  I  can 
teach  you  one  thing,  one  thing  about  love :  it  has  to  be 
whole-hearted.  .  .  ." 

He  flung  away  and  stood  with  his  arm  on  the  mantel- 
piece, fumbling  the  lock  of  a  cigar-cabinet  with  clumsy 
fingers.  Barbara  made  no  sound,  and  after  some  moments 
he  stole  a  look  at  her. 

"I  know,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Well "      He   hesitated   and   then   took   his   plunge. 

"You've  got  to  decide,  Babs." 

"You  must  wait  till  we've  heard  something  definite." 

"No!  If  we  heard  to-morrow,  to-night,  in  five  minutes' 
time,  it  would  make  no  difference.  I  want  the  whole  of 
your  love,  I  want  to  stand  first."  He  waited,  but  she  said 
nothing.  "You've  very  often  told  me  how  much  you 
loved  me,"  he  went  on,  ironical  at  her  silence.  "You've 
told  me  how  you  need  me,  how  grateful  you  are  to  me, 
how  much  you  want  to  make  me  happy " 

He  had  dropped  into  unconscious  parody,  and  its  tech- 
nical excellence  set  her  writhing. 

"Don't,  Eric!     Please!" 

"You  must  decide,  Babs." 

"No!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed  so  wildly 
that  he  expected  at  any  moment  to  see  his  maid's  head  at 
the  door.  For  a  while  he  was  stoically  unmoved;  then 
the  crying  gave  him  a  pain  at  the  heart,  and  he  stepped 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        205 

forward,  only  to  pull  up  before  he  threw  away  his  vic- 
tory. 

"Eric,  don't,"  she  cried,  as  soon  as  she  had  mastery  of 
her  voice. 

"You  must  decide,"  he  repeated. 

"And  if  I  say  'no'  ?" 

"I've  said  you  were  under  no  obligation  to  me." 

"But — you'll  turn  me  away?  If  I  came  to  you  to- 
morrow and  said  I'd  changed  my  mind " 

"It  would  be  too  late." 

She  steadied  herself  and  turned  round,  bending  for 
her  gloves  and  then  drawing  herself  upright  to  face  him. 

"I  .  .,  .  can't  .  .  .  now,  Eric.  ...  Is  it  still  raining? 
If  it  is,  I'd  better  have  a  taxi." 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  get  you  one." 

He  had  seen  this  gesture  before;  and  Barbara  had  fol- 
lowed it  with  a  stream  of  notes  and  messages;  begging 
him  to  come  back.  Eric  walked  slowly  into  the  street, 
giving  her  generous  time  for  consideration.  A  taxi  stood 
idle  at  the  top  of  St.  James'  Street;  and,  when  he  re- 
turned with  it,  she  was  in  the  hall,  white-faced  but  col- 
lected, turning  over  the  pages  of  a  review. 

"Good-bye,  Eric,"  she  said  quietly.  "I'm  afraid  I've 
only  brought  you  unhappiness.  And  my  love  doesn't  seem 
much  use  to  any  one.  .  .  .  Don't  bother  to  come  down 
with  me." 

He  went  into  the  smoking-room  and  dropped  limply  on- 
to a  sofa,  waiting  for  the  telephone  to  ring,  waiting  for  her 
to  confess  defeat.  A  hideous  evening — almost  as  bad  as 
that  night  before  Christmas.  His  cheeks  were  burning, 
and  his  head  ached  savagely.  Suddenly  his  theatrical  com- 
posure and  stoicism  left  him;  his  body  trembled,  and  he 
was  amazed  to  feel  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks.  This, 
then — he  was  quite  detached  about  it — was  the  nervous 
break-down  which  Gaisford  had  prophesied.     He  had  not 


2o6    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

cried  for  twenty  years  .  .  .  and  now  he  could  not  stop. 
His  heart  seemed  to  have  broken  loose  and  to  be  ham- 
mering in  space,  like  the  engine  of  a  disabled  clock-work 
toy. 

It  was  still  absurdly  early,  for  their  scene  had  taken 
place  among  the  nut-shells  and  coffee-cups  of  dinner. 
There  was  time  for  her  to  come  back,  to  telephone;  she 
knew  by  harrowing  experience  what  a  parting  like  this 
meant.  And,  while  he  waited,  he  must  do  something! 
Perhaps  she  would  not  break  silence  till  the  morning.  He 
would  see  that  she  did  not  wait  longer  than  that.  .  .  . 

"Darling  Bahs,"  he  began.  A  hot  tear  splashed  on  to 
the  paper,  and  he  reached  for  a  fresh  sheet.  "Darling 
Bahs,  It  Tikts  your  choice.  I  pray  God  that  you  will  find 
greater  happiness  dsewhere.  .  .  ." 

He  strung  sentence  to  sentence,  not  knowing  what  he 
wrote.  Was  it  not  weakness  that  he  should  be  writing  the 
first  letter?  But  Barbara  was  probably  writing  to  him  at 
this  moment,  writing  or  asking  for  his  number.  .  .  .  The 
night  lift-man  was  bribed  to  post  the  letter,  because  Eric 
dared  not  leave  the  telephone.  He  sat  by  it  trembling  as 
though  with  fever,  while  eleven  o'clock  struck  .  .  .  and 
midnight  ,  .  .  and   one  .  .  .  and  three  .  .  .  and  five.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  he  was  called  at  his  usual  time — to  sink 
back  on  to  the  bed  almost  before  he  had  risen  from  it. 
While  he  waited  for  his  secretary,  he  telephoned  to  ask  a 
colleague  to  shoulder  double  work  for  the  day  and  began 
to  think  wearily  what  other  engagements  he  must  break. 
In.  an  interlude  of  their  over-i;ight  discussion  Barbara  had 
asked  him  to  lunch  with  her.  .  .  . 

With  a  strangely  uncontrolled  hand  he  wrote — '7'w* 
afraid  I  can't  remember  what  I  said  in  my  letter  last 
night.  I  was  feeling  too  much  upset.  Didn't  you  ask  me 
to  lunch  with  you  to-day f  I'm  afraid  I'm  feeling  so  ill 
that  I've  had  to  stay  in  bed.  .  .  ." 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        207 

When  his  secretary  arrived,  he  sent  her  to  Berkeley 
Square  with  the  note.  While  she  was  gone,  his  parlour- 
maid came  in  with  a  swaying  mass  of  White  Enchantress 
carnations  and  a  pencilled  note.  "May  God  make  you  hap- 
pier than  I've  been  able  to  do!" 

Eric  tried  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  the  note  by  giv- 
ing elaborate  instructions  about  the  flowers  and  his  meals 
for  the  day.  Before  he  had  done,  his  secretary  returned, 
and  he  was  still  dictating  when  a  sound  in  the  hall  froze 
his  voice  and  set  his  heart  thumping. 

"I  hear  Mr.  Lane's  not  well.  Do  you  think  he  could  see 
tne  for  a  moment  ?" 

"I'll  enquire,  my  lady." 

As  Barbara  came  into  the  room,  Eric  saw  that  her  face 
was  grey  with  suffering  and  that  she  seemed  hardly  able 
to  keep  her  heavy  lids  open. 

"Eric,  what's  the  matter  ?"  she  asked,  coming  to  his  bed- 
side. 

In  trying  to  speak  softly  her  voice,  already  hoarse,  dis- 
appeared altogether  and  she  rubbed  her  throat  wonder- 
ingly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  us  both?"  he  asked  weakly. 
"Babs  .  .  ."  His  voice  broke.    "You  look  like  death !" 

Before  she  turned  her  face,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
biting  her  lip. 

"Hush,  darling  child!  I'm  only  tired;  I  didn't  sleep 
very  well.  I  kept  on  remembering  that  I'd  lost  some  one  I 
loved  better  than  any  one  in  the  world,"  she  cried  tremu- 
lously. 

He  raised  himself  on  his  pillows,  stretching  out  hands 
that  twitched. 

"You  haven't,  Babs!    If  you  want  me " 

"Not  at  that  price,  darling.  If  my  love  for  you  were 
everything — there's  something  else.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  .  .  .  But  I've  not  come  to  upset  you  again.     Last 


2o8    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

night  I  told  you  that  I'd  come  to  you  from  the  ends  of 
the  world,  if  you  were  ill.  Tell  me  what's  the  matter, 
Eric." 

She  pulled  a  chair  to  the  bed  and  gave  him  her  hand, 
which  he  covered  with  kisses. 

"I'm  broken  up !  I'm  sorry ;  you  can  despise  me,  if  you 
like,"  he  cried.  "I  can't  afford  to  lose  you,  Babs :  I  love 
you  too  much." 

The  tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes,  and  the  sight 
steadied  her.  Pillowing  his  head  on  her  breast,  she  ran 
her  fingers  through  his  hair,  caressing  and  soothing  him 
like  a  child. 

"I've  done  this.  .  .  .  You  must  forgive  me,  Eric,"  she 
whispered.  "I  didn't  see  what  I  was  doing;  until  quite 
lately  I  didn't  see  that  you  cared  for  me  at  all — not  to 
matter,  I  mean — you  were  always  sweet  to  me,  of  course. 
If  I'd  known  how  I  was  hurting  you  .  .  .  Won't  you 
wait,  Eric?  I  must  let  you  go  now,  if  you  insist;  I'm 
nerved  up  to  it.  .  .  .  But  is  it  worth  it?" 

Eric  thought  over  the  change  that  had  come  upon  them 
since  Christmas. 

"No.    I  can't  afford  it,"  he  answered  wearily. 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  his  forehead.  Was  the  kiss 
rather  mechanical?  Eric  lay  with  his  eyes  shut,  trying  to 
analyze  the  double  change.  Was  a  nervous  break-down  al- 
ways like  this?  Barbara  was  stroking  his  head  gently;  she 
had  kissed  him  compassionately,  lovingly,  but  he  had 
fancied  a  change  in  her,  as  though  she,  too,  realized  the 
completeness  of  his  subjugation. 

"See  if  you  can't  sleep,  Eric,"  she  whispered,  as  he 
opened  twitching  lids  to  take  stock  of  her. 

Pity,  or  some  kind  of  maternal  love,  then,  survived  his 
defeat.  .  .  . 


DAME'S  SCHOOL  EDUCATION        209 

"Average  man  is  a  match  for  average  woman,  eighteen 
chances  to  eighteen,  hut  zero  always  turns  up  in  woman's 
favour.  Man,  being  a  philosopher  and  far  less  interested 
in  wommi  {who  is  an  incident)  than  woman  is  interested 
in  him  (who  is  her  life),  would  cheerfully  go  on  playing 
with  the  odds  always  slightly  agadnst  him,  if  he  had  a  clear 
idea  of  the  value  and  significance  of  zero.  But  zero  is 
woman  inexplicable — something  fantastically  loyal  or  shiv- 
eringly  perfidious,  savagely  cruel  or  quixotically  self-sac- 
rificing, something  that  is  primitive,  non-moral  and  re- 
solved to  win  at  all  costs.  In  the  sex-gamble,  zero  is  more 
than  a  thirty-six  to  one  cliance;  it  is  Poushkin's  Dame  de 
Pique  and  turns  up  thirty-six  times  to  one.  And  man 
shews  his  indifference  or  his  greatness  of  soul  by  con- 
tinuing to  play,  by  rising  imperturbably  triumphant  over 
zero.  .  .  .  Or  perhaps  he  shews  that  he  is  an  eternal  sex- 
amateur.  .  .  ." — From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

EDUCATION   FOR  THOSE   OF  RIPER  YEARS 

"Verily  when  an  author  can  approve  his  wife  she  was  deserving 
of  a  better  fate." 

Leonard  AfERRiCK:    "When  Love  Flies  Out  o'  the  Window." 


"After  diagnosis,"  said  Dr.  Gaisford,  "the  prudent  physi- 
cian bases  treatment  on  self-interest.  You're  not  fit  to 
travel  by  yourself  yet,  Eric;  when  I've  patched  you  up,  I 
shall  send  you  away.  If  you  don't  go,  you'll  never  do 
any  decent  work  again." 

Having  persuaded  his  patient  to  stay  in  bed  for  a  week, 
the  doctor  looked  in  nightly  "for  five  minutes"  and  stayed 
sixty-five,  smoking  three  disreputable  pipes  instead  of  one 
and  generalizing  on  life  and  health. 

"It  gives  me  a  headache  even  to  think  of  work,"  said 
Eric,  his  brain  half-paralyzed  with  bromide. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  bromide,  perhaps  it  was  his  nervous 
and  bodily  exhaustion;  the  most  frightening  part  of  this 
latest  illness  was  the  attendant  utter  incapacity  to  make  up 
his  mind.  When  Barbara  left  him  for  Crawleigh  Abbey, 
he  had  resigned  from  his  department  and  withdrawn  the 
resignation,  accepted  an  invitation  to  lecture  in  America — 
and  cancelled  the  acceptance ;  every  night  he  led  Gaisford 
through  the  same  argumentative  maze;  complete  rest, 
partial  rest  in  London  or  the  country,  flight  from  England 
and  all  association  with  Barbara,  full  work — as  soon  as 
he  could  resume  it — ^to  keep  him  from  brooding  about  her ; 

210 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      211 

he  could  not  decide.  And  from  time  to  time  a  mocking 
refrain  told  him  that  as  an  undergraduate  and  again  in 
the  first  flush  of  fame  he  had  aspired  to  be  the  new  young 
Byron,  dominating  London.  .  .  . 

"Poisoned  rat  in  a  hole,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  .  .  . 

Gaisford  would  sit  with  his  arms  crossed  over  the  back 
of  a  chair  and  his  feet  twisted  round  its  legs,  puffing 
thoughtfully  at  his  pipe  and  frowning  at  his  boots.  In  a 
long  experience  of  practice  among  rich  and  self-conscious 
patients  who  would  always  rather  be  "interesting"  than 
normal,  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  watched  the 
bloom  being  rubbed  off  love;  nine  broken  engagements 
and  balked  romances  were  born  of  doltish  delay;, but  a 
mass  of  sensibility  like  Eric  Lane  had  not  the  stamina  to 
wait  nor  the  placidity  to  go  away  and  forget. 

"You  told  me  you  had  a  novel  on  the  stocks,"  said  Gais- 
ford.   "I  suppose  you  wouldn't  let  me  see  it  ?" 

The  first  draft  of  the  book  was  already  in  type,  and, 
though  Eric  hated  his  work  to  be  seen  before  he  had  set 
the  last  polish  on  it,  the  new  indecision  and  weakness  of 
will  allowed  him  to  be  overpersuaded.  Gaisford  brought 
back  the  manuscript  at  the  end  of  three  days  and  talked 
of  neurotic  impressionism  and  the  methods  of  literary 
jerry-builders. 

"I  hope  you're  not  writing  yourself  out,"  he  added. 

Eric  was  frightened  for  the  first  time  since  the  "Divorce" 
placed  him  beyond  the  reach  of  want.  So  many  men 
seemed  capable  of  one  play  or  novel — and  then  no  more. 

"One  can't  always  be  at  concert-pitch,"  he  sighed. 

"Then  you  mustn't  go  on  to  the  platform  till  you  are." 

"It's  easy  to  see  you've  never  been  a  journalist!  The 
agony,  the  violence  to  soul,  when  you  have  to  come  up  to 
scratch,  when  your  copy  has*  to  be  delivered  by  a  certain 
hour !  Writing  without  time  to  revise  or  even  to  read  whet 
you've  already  written — the  compositors  setting  up  the  be- 


212    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

ginning  of  an  article  while  you're  still  writing  the  mid- 
dle. .  .  .  And  the  public  pays  its  twopence  and  expects  us 
to  be  always  at  our  best !" 

"Well,  the  public  pays  me  its  two  guineas  and  expects 
me  to  be  always  at  my  best,"  grunted  the  doctor.  "If  I'm 
off  colour,  I  take  things  quietly.  Otherwise  I  should  de- 
fraud the  pubHc  and  ruin  my  practice  at  the  same  time. 
You  must  take  things  quietly  until  you're  fit  to  work 
again." 

After  he  had  gone,  Eric  tried  to  make  up  his  mind  what 
to  do.  His  thoughts  ran  uncontrolled  to  painters  whose 
sight  had  become  impaired  and  composers  who  had  lost 
their  hearing.  If  he  had  done  violence  to  the  indefinable 
blend  of  gift  and  acquisition  which  separated  the  man  who 
could  write  from  those  who  could  not  .  .  .  This  was  a 
thing  to  be  tested.  The  scenario  of  "The  Singing-Bird" 
was  ready;  he  had  only  been  waiting  because  there  was 
no  hurry  for  another  play.  There  was  now  every  hurry 
to  establish  whether  he  could  write  a  play.  If  Manders 
turned  up  his  nose,  it  would  be  time  indeed  for  a  holi- 
day. 

For  three  months  Eric  buried  himself  in  his  flat,  only 
emerging  at  the  week-end.  Lashmar  Mill-House  gave  him 
proximity  to  Agnes  Waring;  and  every  week  he  made  an 
excuse  to  walk  over  to  Red  Roofs  and  ask  for  tidings  of 
Jack.  The  news  that  he  was  alive  seemed  better  than  the 
suspense  of  no  news;  but  the  tyranny  of  love  was  strange 
when  a  man  could  pray  for  the  death  of  a  friend.  The 
Warings'  atmosphere  of  dignified  expectancy  rebuked  him; 
they  made  no  more  pother  than  if  a  single  letter  had  gone 
astray.  The  colonel  motored  daily  into  Winchester  and  sat 
on  his  tribunal ;  Mrs.  Waring  presided  over  her  bandaging 
classes,  and  Agnes  looked  after  the  house.  There  was  no 
fretting  at  Red  Roofs;  the  errant  letter  would  come  to 
hand — or  it  would  not;  the  Warings  were  a  military  fam- 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      213 

ily.  Sharing  their  suspense  for  the  first  time,  Eric  mar- 
velled at  their  composure.  His  own  heart  quickened  its 
beat  whenever  he  asked  with  false  solicitude  whether 
Agnes  had  tried  to  get  news  through  the  American  or 
Spanish  Embassy,  the  Prisoners-of-War  Clearing-House  in 
Copenhagen  or  the  Vatican.  Peace  of  mind  returned  a 
step  nearer  each  time  that  she  shook  her  head  and  mur- 
mured, "Yes,  we  tried  that.  It  was  no  good,  though." 
Then  his  growing  security  was  checked  by  a  gripe  of  con- 
science; he  felt  like  a  murderer  who  stole  furtively  into 
the  woods  by  night  to  see  whether  prowling  animal  or 
pursuing  man  had  disturbed  the  grave.  Well,  at  least 
another  week  had  passed.  .  .  .  But  in  a  week's  time  he 
must  undergo  the  suspense  again.  Agnes  might  come  to 
him,  radiant  as  on  that  night  when  she  dined  with  him, 
crying  "Eric!  You  remember  that  cheque?  Well,  we 
heard  to-day.  .  .  ." 

Extravagant  tension  and  violent  relief  destroyed  the 
serenity  required  for  good  work;  but  Eric  was  not  dis- 
satisfied with  the  progress  of  his  play.  Ease  and  com- 
mand had  grown  reassuringly;  his  psychology  was  surer, 
perhaps  because  his  own  psychological  experience  had 
been  so  much  enriched;  and  his  dialogue,  losing  nothing 
of  its  neatness  and  economy,  had  taken  on  an  added  veri- 
similitude. It  was  too  early  to  judge  dispassionately;  but, 
as  Eric  made  his  last  corrections  and  sent  a  copy  of  the 
script  to  Manders,  he  felt  a  warmer  glow  of  confidence 
than  either  of  his  first  plays  had  inspired. 

It  was  the  end  of  October  before  he  had  finished.  The 
strain  of  work  had  buoyed  him  up,  but  it  was  succeeded  by 
a  debilitating  reaction,  which  impelled  him  with  guilty 
reluctance  to  Wimpole  Street. 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  even  pretend  that  you've  been  fol- 
lowing my  advice,"  said  the  doctor  with  a  hint  of  im- 
patience, as  he  brought  his  examination  to  an  end. 


214   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"You  know,  Gaisford,  it's  not  the  least  use  telling  me  to 
do  nothing,"  Eric  answered  jauntily.  "I'm  not  built  that 
way." 

"So  I've  heard  before — from  others  as  well.  And  the 
others  have  found  themselves  packed  off  to  nursing-homes, 
which,  my  dear  Eric,  are  very  tedious  institutions.  Are 
you  going  abroad  now  ?" 

"Not  at  the  moment." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  my  office,  if  I'm  still  wanted." 
■    Gaisford  shrugged  his  shoulders  ruefully. 

"You  know,  Eric,  it's  a  waste  of  my  time  and  of  your 
money  for  you  to  come  to  me  for  advice.  You've  definitely 
gone  back  since  I  saw  you  in  the  summer." 

"I've  been  working  very  hard ;  but  I'm  rather  pleased 
with  the  results." 

"I  hope  it's  nothing  like  that  novel  you  shewed  me,"  said 
the  doctor  gloomily. 

"I'll  send  you  the  script  when  I  get  it  back  from  Man- 
ders,"  Eric  promised  with  a  laugh. 


On  his  return  to  official  work,  Eric  found  that  he  could 
not  concentrate  his  attention  on  anything  until  he  knew 
what  Manders  thought  of  "The  Singing-Bird";  sometimes 
he  wondered  whether  he  could  ever  concentrate  until  Bar- 
bara had  brought  his  suspense  to  an  end.  For  three  months 
they  had  not  met  or  corresponded. 

"Dr.  Gaisford  says  I  simply  make  you  worse,"  she  told 
Iiim.  "I  mustn't  add  that  to  my  other  sins.  If  you  want 
me,  I'm  there;  but  I  shan't  write  to  you,  and  you  mustn't 
write  to  me.  I  shall  miss  you  horribly,  but  your  health's 
more  important  than  my  happiness.  We're  coming  back 
to  Lonfion  in  the  autumn." 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      215 

A  week  before  her  return,  the  whole  Mill-House  party 
motored  over  to  Red  Roofs  to  dine  with  the  Warings.  It 
was  an  old  promise,  and  Eric  was  glad  to  avail  himself  of 
it  to  break  the  continuity  of  his  stilted  Sunday  calls.  As 
he  dressed,  a  note  was  brought  him  from  Colonel  War- 
ing, and  he  read  with  some  surprise: 

*'I  trust  you,  are  not  going  to  fail  us  to-night.  There  is 
a  metier  on  which  I  want  your  advice  and,  perhaps,  your 
help." 

Eric  tore  the  note  into  small  pieces  and  went  on  with 
his  dressing,  only  frowning  at  his  own  want  of  control 
when  he  found  his  hand  shaking  until  he  could  hardly  part 
his  hair.  There  was  only  one  subject  on  which  anybody 
at  Red  Roofs  could  want  to  consult  him;  from  the  fact 
that  Colonel  Waring  wrote — and  wrote  to  him — some  of- 
ficial action  was  pending;  otherwise  Agnes  would  have 
whispered  a  word  to  him  before  dinner.  They  had  re- 
ceived news  that  Jack  was  alive  ...  or  dead  ...  or  they 
had  thought  of  a  new  means  of  getting  in  touch  with 
him.  .  .  . 

Eric  kept  his  surprise  to  himself  and  drove  silently 
through  two  miles  of  thicket  and  clearing  to  the  south  end 
of  Lashmar  Wood.  Beyond  a  cordial  hand-shake  and  the 
smiling  statement  that  he  was  glad  to  see  him,  Colonel 
Waring  vouchsafed  no  explanation  of  his  letter.  Eric 
looked  keenly  at  Agnes  and  her  mother,  but  their  faces  and 
manner  betrayed  neither  elation  nor  .  .  .  What  else  could 
they  betray?  he  wondered  sinkingly.  If  Jack  were  dead, 
the  dinner-party  would  have  been  postponed.  They  still 
hoped  for  him,  but  their  hopes  were  not  hardy  enough  to 
be  exposed. 

When  the  men  were  alone  after  dinner,  Eric's  heart 
missed  a  beat  and  he  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair.     The 


2i6    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

colonel,  after  fidgeting  with  a  decanter  and  tidying  away 
the  remains  of  two  different  conversations,  carried  his 
glass  to  Eric's  end  of  the  table  and  sat  beside  him,  ask- 
ing with  a  smile  whether  his  note  had  been  delivered  in 
time. 

"This  is  between  ourselves,"  he  began,  leaning  back 
with  his  legs  stretched  out  and  frowning  at  the  blue  flame 
of  a  grenade- shaped  cigar-lighter.  "We've  had  news  of 
a  kind  about  Jack."  He  raised  his  hand  as  Eric  tried  to 
speak.  "No,  my  dear  boy,  that's  just  what  we  want  to 
avoid!  Don't  congratulate  us — yet.  You  see,  we've  been 
through  the  racket  once.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  know  for  certain,  then?"  Eric  asked  and 
wondered  whether  he  was  imagining  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"No.  Let  me  see,  Agnes  told  you  all  about  the  cheque, 
didn't  she?  He  was  missing  in  August  last  year,  and  the 
cheque  was  drawn  in  October.  We  now  know  that  he  was 
alive  in  December.    It  appears  .  .  ." 

Eric  did  not  hear  the  next  few  sentences.  Stoically,  yet 
with  an  underlying  measured  jubilance,  the  old  colonel  was 
dragging  Jack  to  security  from  the  presumption  of  death 
two  montlis  at  a  time.  Alive  in  October,  aHve  in  Decem- 
ber! Thirteen  months  ago,  eleven  months  ago.  Some  one 
would  have  heard  of  him  in  February  or  seen  him  in  April ! 
He  was  catching  up  hand  over  fist.  And  one  day  he  would 
land  in  England,  you  would  meet  him  in  the  street  with- 
out warning;  as  you  dawdled  through  Berkeley  Square, 
you  might  see  him  standing  on  the  door-step  of  Lord 
Crawleigh's  house. 

"I  don't  for  one  moment  suppose  that  this  is  the  only 
case."     Colonel  Waring  was  commenting. 

Eric  looked  up  with  an  intelligent  nod,  wondering  what 
he  had  been  told.  Waring,  always  soldierly  and  dapper, 
with  a  neat  care  of  person  which  he  had  handed  on  to  his 
children,  seemed  years  fresher  and  younger  to-night;  the 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      217 

liverish  tinge  of  yellow  which  settled  on  his  face  in  cold 
weather  had  wholly  departed. 

"Would  you  mind  giving  me  the  dates  again?"  said 
Eric. 

"Missing  in  August;  the  cheque  in  October;  the  row  in 
December.  This  fellow  Britwell"  (Eric  wished  that  he 
had  listened  to  find  out  who  was  Britwell)  "was  taken 
prisoner  at  the  same  time,  and  they  were  in  the  same 
prisoners'  camp.  Britwell  couldn't  say  how  badly  Jack 
was  wounded,  because  he'd  been  in  hospital  himself  until 
the  day  before  the  row  came.  Jack,  according  to  the  story, 
was  hauled  up  for  calling*  one  of  the  guards  a  'Schwein- 
hund.'  (You  know  Jack  well  enough  to  say  if  he'd  be  likely 
to  fling  about  abuse  of  that. kind  without  provocation). 
His  only  defence  was  that  the  guard  had  told  him — in 
German — to  do  something,  and  almost  the  only  German 
he  knew  was  that  word,  because  they'd  shouted  it  at  him 
when  they  found  him  half-unconscious  in  his  trench  and 
kicked  him  back  behind  the  lines,  and  the  women  and 
children  had  screamed  it  at  him,  in  the  intervals  of  spitting 
in  his  face  at  all  the  stations.  And  it  was  the  one  word 
that  all  the  camp  guards  used  to  every  British  prisoner. 
Well,  he  may  have  been  given  the  opportunity  of  apologiz- 
ing or  he  may  not;  if  so,  he  refused  it,  and  the  last  thing 
Britwell  heard  was  that  he'd  been  packed  oflf  to  solitary 
confinement  in  a  fortress  for  nine  months.  December 
'15  ...  to  September  or  October  this  year.  That  ex- 
plains the  cheque,  but  it  doesn't  explain  why  he  hasn't 
written.  ...  Of  course,  he  hasn't  had  much  time.  .  .  ." 

The  stoicism  in  Waring's  composed  face  became  eclipsed 
for  a  moment.  The  boy  might  have  died  of  his  wounds 
or  of  ill-treatment;  he  might  have  offended  a  second  time 
and  been  a  second  time  imprisoned  without  power  to  com- 
municate with  his  friends ;  he  might  have  been  transferred 
to  another  camp  with  an  unrelaxing  ban  on  all  his  letters 


2i8    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

lest  he  tried  to  describe  the  barbarism  of  which  he  had 
been  made  a  victim.  .  .  . 

"I've  got  that  straight  so  far,"  said  Eric  slowly.  "Now 
tell  me  what  I  can  do." 

If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  he  would  at  least  try  to 
surrender  his  claim  on  Barbara  with  a  good  grace. 

"Well,  it's  the  old  business:  we  want  news,"  said  War- 
ing. "I  tried  the  War  Office  as  soon  as  I  heard  from  Brit- 
well,  which  was  a  week  ago;  he's  been  transferred  to 
Switzerland  as  one  of  the  badly  wounded  cases.  You 
know  what  the  War  Office  is;  I  may  be  fed  with  printed 
forms  for  months.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  anybody  there  who 
can  take  up  the  thing  personally  ?" 

"If  I  don't  know  any  one,  I  can  soon  get  to  know  the 
right  man." 

"We  shall  be  very  grateful.  Meanwhile  don't  talk  about 
it — to  anybody." 

Eric  refrained  from  giving  a  promise,  for  he  knew  that 
he  would  have  to  tell  Barbara  the  following  week.  Within 
three  hours  of  his  return  to  London  he  had  set  half-a-dozen 
telephone  wires  humming,  and,  before  leaving  his  depart- 
ment, the  newly-found  freemasonry  of  the  public  service 
had  supplied  him  with  all  available  information.  Officially, 
Captain  Waring  was  "missing;"  but  his  name  had  not  been 
reported  from  any  German  source;  unofficially,  the  War 
Office  had  a  copy  of  Major  Britwell's  letter  to  Colonel 
Waring.  Nothing  more  was  known.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  great  deal  of  new  information  was  pouring  in  since  the 
convention  for  the  exchange  of  wounded  prisoners.  If 
Captain  Waring  were  incapacitated  and  if  the  official  Ger- 
man conscience  were  not  too  uneasy,  he  might  have  the 
luck  to  be  transferred  to  Switzerland  at  any  moment. 

Eric  sent  a  report  to  Colonel  Waring  and  wrote  to  Bar- 
bara that  night  for  the  first  time  in  three  months.  "/  want 
you  to  know  as  soon  as  possible  that  Jack  was  alive  last 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      219 

December.  Tliat's  eleven  months  ago,  and  he  may  he  alive 
still;  the  family  simply  doesn't  know.  I'll  tell  you  the  full 
story  when  we  meet," 

In  thanking  him,  she  suggested  a  night  for  dining  to- 
gether on  her  return ;  and  Eric  spent  three  days  that  were 
as  restless  and  insupportable  as  the  three  hours  before  a 
first  night.  It  would  hurt  intolerably  if  she  behaved  as  a 
stranger,  when  they  met;  almost  as  intolerably  if  she 
threw  herself  into  his  arms — and  forced  him  to  remember 
what  he  was  threatened  with  losing. 

On  the  evening  before  they  were  to  meet,  the  telephone 
rang,  and  Manders'  voice,  brisk  and  cheerful,  enquired  if 
Eric  was  likely  to  be  at  the  Thespian  Club  that  night. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  about  this  play  of  yours,"  he  ex- 
plained. "Well,  can  you  lunch  to-morrow,  say,  half -past 
one?" 

"Yes.  I  should  like  to.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Man- 
ders?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"It's  too  long  to  discuss  now." 

"You  can  just  say  whether  "you  like  it  or  not." 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow.     Cheerio,  boy." 

Eric  was  irritated  by  Manders'  uncommunicativeness. 
The  fellow  could  at  least  have  said,  "First  rate !"  or  "The 
best  thing  you've  done."  "Too  long  to  discuss  now"  meant 
hours  of  captiousness  and  months  of  heroic  surgery.  And 
with  his  late  loss  of  assurance  Eric  could  not  say  with 
confidence  that  it  was  the  best  thing  he  had  done.  .  .  . 


When  he  reached  the  club  next  day,  Eric  found  that 
Manders  had  arrived  before  him  and  was  ordering 
luncheon  for  both. 


220    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"D'you  like  the  '06  Ruinart,  or  is  it  too  dry  for  you?" 
he  asked. 

"Nothing's  too  dry  for  me,"  Eric  answered,  "but  I  de- 
cline to  drink  champagne  at  lunch.  I've  work  to  do  this 
afternoon." 

His  host  smiled  persuasively  and  continued  to  write  his 
bill. 

"It'll  do  you  good,  boy.  Buck  you  up.  Well,  how  are 
you?  The  last  time  I  was  here,  some  old  buffer  told  me 
you'd  been  seedy,  but  that  was  right  away  back  in  the 
summer.    What  was  the  matter?" 

"I  was  only  a  bit  run  down,"  Eric  answered,  "What  did 
you  think  of  the  play  ?" 

Manders  gave  his  bill  to  a  waiter  and  planted  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  pressing  his  finger-tips  together. 

"Well,  I  read  it  very  carefully,"  he  began.  "By  the  way, 
before  I  forget  it,  'The  Bomb-Shell's'  doing  very  well  on 
tour." 

Eric  chewed  his  lips  impatiently.  He  would  gladly  hear 
about  "The  Bomb-Shell"  later,  but  he  now  wanted  to  pin 
Manders  to  a  criticism  of  "The  Singing  Bird," 

"Well,  let's  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  as  long  as  we 
can." 

The  subject  dismissed,  he  looked  up  expectantly  and 
found  Manders  wholly  absorbed  with  his  oysters,  rejecting 
red  pepper  for  black,  shaking  a  cautious  drop  of  tabasco 
vinegar  on  each,  adding  a  dash  of  lemon-juice  and,  when 
all  else  was  ready,  sipping  his  champagne  with  preliminary 
caution.  The  play  would  have  to  be  cut  about,  then;  per- 
haps the  actor-manager  was  disappointed  with  his  own 
part.  .  .  . 

"Well,  let's  hear  all  about  it,"  Manders  began  heartily. 
"When  did  you  find  time  to  write  it?  After  you'd  got 
'The  Bomb-Shell'  out  of  the  way?" 

"Not  immediately.    I  knocked  off  all  my  other  work  and 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      221 

concentrated  on  this  thing  day  and  night  for  three  months." 

"Three  months?  You're  a  quick  worker.  You  know, 
boy,  that  would  have  been  a  better  play  if  you'd  given 
more  time  to  it." 

Manders  slipped  three  oysters  into  his  mouth  in  rapid 
succession,  and  Eric  smiled  with  indulgent  patience.  One 
hard-dying  school  of  critics  always  made  quick  work  a 
synonym  for  hasty  work. 

"I  managed  to  crowd  about  three  years  into  the  three 
months." 

"Ah,  that  means  you're  writing  with  your  nerves !  Now, 
if  I  were  you,  I'd  put  the  thing  aside  for  six  months,  clear 
it  out  of  your  head;  then,  when  you  come  to  it  with  a 
fresh  mind " 

"You  don't  like  it?"  Eric  interrupted.    "Why  not?" 

"I  don't  like  it  in  its  present  form.  I  don't  suppose  you 
want  a  line-by-line  criticism.  ...  If  you  look  at  it  in  six 
months'  time,  you'll  see  my  objection  for  yourself." 

Eric  raised  his  glass  mechanically  and  was  vaguely  sur- 
prised to  find  himself  drinking  champagne.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  champagne  had  been  ordered  to  "buck"  him 
"up";  he  remembered,  too,  Manders'  solicitude  for  his 
health,  the  enquiries  when  the  play  had  been  written  and 
how  long  he  had  taken  to  write  it,  the  evasion  and  silence 
the  night  before  on  the  telephone  and  again  at  the  begin- 
ning of  luncheon,  when  he  tried  to  extract  a  frank 
opinion.  .  .  .  Manders,  then,  was  rejecting  the  play  .  .  . 
and  trying  to  be  considerate.  .  .  . 

"We  don't  mince  matters  at  rehearsal,"  he  said  with  a 
breathless  laugh.    "You  think  the  play's  hopeless?" 

Manders  looked  relieved,  but  he  had  known  so  many  dis- 
appointments himself  and  seen  others  so  often  crushed  by 
them  that  his  brown,  monkey  eyes  were  full  of  pity. 

"It  no  use  at  all.  In  its  present  form  or  any  other.  If 
it  had  been  any  one  but  you,  I  wouldn't  have  read  two 


222    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

pages  of  it.  You  may  as  well  take  the  whole  of  your 
physic,  boy;  you've  got  to  stop  writing  for  the  present, 
you've  lost  your  sense  of  the  theatre,  you're  forgetting  all 
the  tricks  you  ever  learned.  D'you  know,  when  I  read  that 
thing,  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  you  were  trying  to 
palm  off  some  old  thing  that  you'd  written  when  you  were 
an  undergrad?" 

For  a  moment  Eric  lost  his  sense  of  distance;  the  long 
coffee-room  was  full  of  shouting  and  discordant  laughter; 
a  waiter,  who  seemed  quite  near,  asked  in  a  remote  voice 
whether  he  might  take  the  black  pepper.  .  .  .  Eric  gripped 
the  edge  of  the  table,  praying  that  he  might  not  disgrace 
himself. 

"I  wonder — why,"  he  murmured  faintly. 

Manders  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  filled  both  glasses 
encouragingly. 

"It  often  happens.  Graham  Lever  had  three  plays  run- 
ning in  London  at  the  same  time;  then  he  chucked  roman- 
tic comedy  and  tried  to  write  a  revolt-of-the-younger-gen- 
eration  problem  play.  .  .  ."  Manders  omitted  to  add  that 
Lever  had  never  had  another  play  staged,  but  Eric's  ten 
years  of  dramatic  criticism  enabled  him  to  fill  the  gap. 
"George  Sharpe  failed  again  and  again  for  eight  years; 
he  had  one  success  and  then  failed  for  three.  It  would  be 
hard  to  think  of  a  man  who  never  loses  his  touch.  Partly 
it's  the  author  and  partly  it's  the  audience;  they  get  tired 
.  .  .  and,  when  one  kind  of  play  succeeds,  all  the  other 
men  unconsciously  imitate,  and  the  managers  can  only  see 
money  in  that  one  kind,  so  that  the  public  gets  sated.  With 
you  .  .  ."  He  paused  to  tear  his  bread  into  lumps  and 
throw  it  into  his  soup.  "You  probably  want  some  fresh 
air.  You've  been  living  in  the  theatre  too  much,  you've 
forgotten  what  real  people  are  like.  If  you  brought  that 
play  down  and  read  it  to  the  company " 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      223 

His  aposiopesis  suggested  that  there  would  be  uproar 
and  danger  to  Hfe. 

"What  had  I  better  do  ?"  Eric  asked  weakly. 

"Frankly?  Well,  scrap  your  'Singing  Bird'  and  throw 
your  pen  behind  the  fire.  Don't  try  to  write  for  six  months. 
After  that,  anything  you  like  to  send  me  ...  I  hope  you 
can  eat  this,  by  the  way?" 

Eric  found  that  a  sole,  half-hidden  by  mussels,  had  been 
placed  before  him,  Manders  had  taken  trouble  about  the 
luncheon ;  he  was  a  good  fellow  and  had  tried  to  soften 
the  blow;  throughout  the  time  that  they  had  worked  to- 
gether he  had  been  patient  and  very  human;  he  was  try- 
ing to  part  now  on  a  pleasant  note.  "Anything  you  like 
to  send  me  .  .  ."  It  would  certainly  be  read ;  for  a  time 
he  would  read  it  himself — the  next  three  failures,  say. 
And  then  .  .  ,  Eric  wondered  whether  he  would  be  able 
to  go  back  to  journalism.  The  two  successful  plays  would 
keep  him  from  starving,  but  he  must  make  a  livelihood 
again  .  .  .  and  count  every  shilling  before  he  spent  it. 
The  flat  must  go.  .  .  . 

The  long  triumphal  progress  which  he  had  enjoyed  and 
disdained  rose  up  in  accusing  mockery.  Here,  then,  was 
the  end  of  that  life-long  dream  of  domination.  For  a 
time  Lady  Poynter  would  invite  him  to  her  house  and 
ask  when  the  next  play  was  coming  out,  but  her  nature  and 
the  requirements  of  her  sham-intellectual  life  demanded 
that  she  should  drop  him  when  he  no  longer  had  any  tricks 
to  display.  Young  Forbes  Standish  or  Carlton  Haig — 
"most  promising  young  playwrights" — would  take  his 
place.  Perhaps  some  one  like  George  Oakleigh,  who  liked 
him  personally,  would  ask  what  had  become  of  him;  and 
Lady  Poynter  would  answer  easily :  "I  haven't  seen  him 
for  a  long  time.  I  must  find  out  whether  he's  in  London 
and  get  him  to  lunch  one  day."  And  then  young  Forbes 
Standish  would  begin  to  criticize  "The  Bomb-Shell"  or  the 


224   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Divorce"  with  bland  patronage.     And  every  one  at  the 
Thespian  would  be  tactful  and  considerate. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  be  able  to  write  anything 
again,"  Eric  sighed.  "This  is  the  second — facer  I've  had. 
There  was  a  novel  I  started.  .  .  .  I'm  used  up,  Manders." 

"Take  a  holiday  and  don't  talk  rot !" 

Conversation  languished  through  the  rest  of  the  meal, 
and  Eric  hurried  back  to  his  office,  pretending  that  he 
could  not  spare  time  for  coffee  or  a  liqueur.  It  was  an 
ofl&ce  which  he  had  once  hated,  because  it  absorbed  time 
and  strength  which  he  needed  for  his  own  work ;  he  had 
treated  it  cavalierly,  from  time  to  time  writing  letters  of 
resignation  and  throwing  them  into  a  drawer.  As  he  set- 
tled to  the  familiar  table  in  the  crowded,  ill-lit  room,  he 
wondered  whether  he  would  be  of  the  lucky  number  for 
whom  the  Government  service  would  find  openings  at  the 
end  of  the  war.  He  had  yet  to  prove  that  he  could  earn  a 
living  again  as  a  journalist;  and  efficiency  mattered  little 
in  a  civil  servant,  for,  if  his  work  were  good,  some  one 
else  would  get  the  credit,  and,  if  it  were  bad,  it  would  be 
undiscovered.  .  .  . 

A  drawling  voice  from  the  War  Office  broke  in  upon 
his  musings.  Had  not  Mr.  Lane  been  making  enquiries 
about  a  Captain  Waring?  His  name  was  on  the  next  list 
of  prisoners  to  be  transferred  to  Switzerland ;  his  relations 
would  be  informed  officially. 

Eric  telephoned  at  once  to  Colonel  Waring  and  Barbara. 
As  he  dressed  for  dinner,  Agnes  arrived  in  a  laden  car 
with  both  her  parents,  clamorous  for  help  in  securing  pass- 
ports. They  were  staying  at  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel  with 
their  boxes  packed,  waiting  for  further  news,  and  the 
radiance  in  their  eyes  scorched  him.  Barbara  had  re- 
ceived the  news  almost  without  comment ;  he  wondered 
what  manner  she  would  shew  him;  perhaps  tljis  was  the 
last  time  that  they  would  ever  meet.  .  .  . 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      225 

"I'm  not  sure  that  her  ladyship's  dressecTyet.  ...  If 
you  wouldn't  mind  waiting,  sir.  ...  I  have  taken  the 
paper  into  her  ladyship's  room.  ...  I  hope  you've  been 
keeping  well,  sir.  ,  .  ,?" 

Eric  started  in  physical  pain  at  the  familiar  friendliness 
of  the  old  butler.  The  little  confidences,  introduced  with 
a  deprecatory  cough,  floated  down  from  a  height  one  stair 
above  him.  Barbara's  room,  as  ever,  was  in  chaos;  her 
kitten,  roused  by  his  entrance,  stretched  herself  and  arched 
her  back.  Then  the  other  door  opened,  and  Barbara  hur- 
ried in.  Her  arms  were  soft  and  cool  as  ever  against  his 
cheeks,  and  he  caught  a  well-remembered  breath  of  carna- 
tions as  her  head  bent  low  on  to  his  breast.  He  held  her 
close;  but  his  pressure  suddenly  relaxed,  and  he  stepped 
back. 

"Don't  you  like  kissing  me  any  more?"  she  asked.  "I've 
been  hungry  for  you  all  these  months !" 

*T  was  thinking  what  it  would  be  like  if  you  suddenly 
took  yourself  out  of  my  life,"  said  Eric. 

"Darling,  why  must  you  spoil  the  present  by  dragging 
in  the  future?" 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

Barbara  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to  a  chair. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  look  so  frightfully  ill,"  she  whispered. 
"Have  you  been  missing  me?  My  dear,  what  a  mess  I 
seem  to  have  made  of  our  lives !  Sit  down !  Let  me  take 
care  of  you !  Let  me  do  what  I  can  for  you,  darling !  It 
isn't  much!" 

"I  don't  think  I'd  better  stay,  Babs,"  said  Eric  with 
nervous  indecision,  "I'm  bad  company;  I  shall  only  get 
on  your  nerves  and  upset  you." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I'm  not  so  happy  that  there's  much  to  spoil.  Eric,  I 
sometimes  think  you  don't  quite  understand.  I'm  not  mis- 
erable because  I  want  Jack  and  can't  get  him.     I  don't 


226   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

know  whether  I  want  him  or  not;  that's  what  makes  the 
suspense  such  a  hell.  .  .  .  There  was  a  time  when  I  wasn't 
sure  whether  I  was  in  love  with  him  or  not.  .  .  .  He  was 
stronger  that  I  was,  he  could  have  done  anything  with  me. 
If  I  hadn't  felt  his  power,  I  should  have  paid  no  attention 
to  him,  he  couldn't  have  hurt  me,  I  shouldn't  have  wanted 
to  punish  him.  Is  that  love  ?  I  suppose  it's  one  form.  .  .  . 
When  I  see  him  ...  if  he  says  he  wants  me  ...  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  feel  like.  Love  .  .  .  ordinary  love.  .  .  . 
There's  never  been  anything  to  equal  my  love  for  you.  .  .  . 
So  it  hasn't  been  easy  for  me,  has  it?  Ever  since  I  met 
you,  I've  pined  to  know  what  was  going  to  happen  to  me." 

Eric  looked  away  and  was  silent  for  several  moments. 
She  had  made  a  romance  of  her  oath  to  Jack  and  had 
played  dramatically  with  alternate  ecstasy  and  despair,  see- 
ing herself  as  a  woman  cursed  by  God.  She  made  a 
romance  of  her  twin  Joves  and  dual  obligations,  seeing 
herself  as  a  woman  fated  to  blight  all  who  loved  her.  She 
lived  for  "situations"  and  conflicts,  experimenting  in  emo- 
tion; already  a  garment  of  romance  had  been  woven  round 
Jack. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  that  I'd  seen  the  Warings  to-day," 
Eric  said  at  length.  "They're  off  to  Switzerland  as  soon 
as  they  can  get  their  passports.  If  you'd  care  ...  I 
mean,  I  can  write  a  letter  from  my  office  and  enclose  any- 
thing ;  it  wouldn't  be  censored  then." 

Barbara  bent  her  head  until  her  trembling  lips  were 
hidden  from  him. 

"It's  lil-ce  you  to  think  of  that !  Nobody's  ever  loved  any 
one  as  you  love  me!  But  I  won't,  Eric.  If  he  wants 
me  .  .  ." 

Eric  stared  at  the  fire,  kicking  one  heel  against  the  other 
toe.  If  she  was  in  agony  of  spirit,  he  could  have  sworn 
that  she  was  enjoying  the  agony. 

"Yes,  I  love  you  more  than  any  one  else  ever  has.  .  .  . 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      227 

It  gives  you  enormous  gratification.  .  .  .  But  I  wonder  if 
you  think  it's  anything  more  than  your  own  cleverness.  I 
suppose  you  have  some  love  for  me.  .  .  .  But,  if  he  wants 
you,  I  shall  drop  out  of  your  life.  ...  I  was  happy,  I 
didn't  need  you !  You  wrapped  yourself  round  my  life 
until  you  saw  that  I  couldn't  do  without  you,  and  then — 
if — he — wants  you!    What  have  you  left  for  me?" 

"Is  it  nothing  to  have  brought  me  happiness  ?"  she  asked ; 
but  his  deep-toned  reproach,  unrehearsed,  unstudied  and 
faltering,  had  broken  through  her  surface  emotions  and 
shattered  her  self-absorption.  "Eric,  I'm  not  every  one! 
Your  work " 

"D'you  think  I  can  ever  write  again?  You  never  did 
think  much  of  anything  I  wrote " 

"You  know  that  I  was  only  teasing  you!  That  first 
night,  when  you  were  so  dreadfully  pleased  with  yourself. 
.  .  .  But  I  found  you  tvere  human,  after  all,  when  I  came 
home  with  you " 

"And  broke  'the  child's  toy.' " 

"Ah,  why  did  you  remind  me  of  that?" 

"I  was  reminded  of  it  myself  to-day.  I'm  not  super- 
stitious, but  my  luck  has  gone.    I  can't  write  any  more." 

"Eric,  that's  not  true!" 

He  compressed  his  lips  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  re- 
signedly. 

"You  know  best,  no  doubt.  Since  we  met,  I've  written 
the  first  draft  of  a  novel,  which  is  unreadable,  and  a  play. 
...  I  sent  the  play  to  Manders  about  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Without  telling  me  ?  Don't  you  like  sharing  things  with 
me  any  longer?" 

The  soft  reproach  in  her  voice  maddened  him.  She 
seemed  incapable  of  seeing  that  she  wanted  the  whole  of 
him  at  a  time  when  she  was  herself  momentarily  drawing 
away. 

"You  choose  a  curious  time  to  ask  that  question !  There's 


228    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

nothing  to  share.  It's  turned  down,  rejected.  Nothing  I 
can  do  to  it  will  make  it  even  possible.  I  can't  write  any 
more,  I'm  used  up.  .  .  .  Yes,  we  may  fairly  say  that  my 
luck  has  gone.  And  that  night,  you  may  remember,  you 
recommended  me  to  fall  in  love,  because  it  would  be  so 
good  for  me.  .  .  ." 


Since  the  exchange  of  incapacitated  prisoners  began, 
there  had  been  so  many  delays  and  disappointments  that 
the  Warings  remained  in  London,  with  what  patience  they 
could  muster,  until  they  received  news  that  Jack's  party 
was  proceeding  to  Chateau  d'Oex. 

For  reasons  which  he  was  at  a  loss  to  define  Eric  saw 
them  off  at  Charing  Cross.  They  found  time  amid  their 
jubilation  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  his  trouble  in  making 
enquiries  at  the  War  Office  and  in  expediting  the  issue  of 
their  passports.  As  chairman  of  his  local  military  tribunal, 
the  colonel  could  not  be  absent  from  England  for  any  long 
time  on  end,  but  they  were  proposing  tentatively  and  sub- 
ject to  Jack's  condition  of  health  to  take  a  villa  and  to  stay 
with  him  by  turns.  Agnes  and  her  father  expected  to 
come  back  after  a  week  or  ten  days,  leaving  Airs.  Waring 
in  charge  until  Christmas. 

As  they  chatted  artificially  by  the  carriage  door,  there 
was  radiance  in  the  faces  of  all  three;  the  colonel  seemed 
more  upright,  Mrs.  Waring  had  shed  her  set,  stoical  calm 
and,  with  it,  about  ten  years. 

"You  won't  forget  to  write,  Agnes,"  said  Eric,  as  the 
guard  bustled  along  the  platform,  breaking  up  the  little 
groups  like  a  sheep-dog. 

"It  may  be  only  a  line,  but  I'll  tell  you  everything  when 
we  get  back,"  she  promised. 

A  week  passed  before  her  letter  reached  him. 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      229 

^'We  got  here  after  the  most  impossible  journey,"  Agnes 
wrote  from  Chateau  d'Oex,  "and  Jack  came  to  us  yester- 
day.  You  can't  imagine  what  it  was  like,  seeing  him  again 
when  we'd  nearly  given  up  hope!  He's  very  had — hut  I 
suppose  I'd  hetter  start  at  the  beginning.  When  he  was 
taken  prisoner,  he^d  been  zvounded  in  the  head  and  slightly 
gassed.  The  gassing  doesn't  matter,  except  that  he  will 
always  have  to  take  care  of  Ivis  lungs;  the  head  wound  has 
left  a  scar  and  a  bald  place,  but  he  can  cover  tliat  up.  At 
present  he  gets  the  most  awful  head-aches  if  he  tries  to  do 
any  work.  The  Germans  let  him  go  because  he  was  sim- 
ply wasting  away  on  the  horrible  food  they  gave  him  to 
eat,  and  he's  like  a  skeleton  now.  But  we're  going  to  feed 
him  up  and  put  that  right,  and  then  it'll  just  be  a  question 
hotv  much  zvork  and  what  kind  of  work  he'll  be  able  to  do 
when  he's  well. 

"He's  alive,  Eric,  and  that's  the  great  thing.  And  he^s 
well  and  strong  compared  with  some  of  the  ghastly  wrecks 
that  you  see  here.  I  must  wait  till  we  meet  before  I  give 
you  a  full  account  of  all  he's  been  through,  hut  Major 
Britwell's  story  rvas  quite  true  so  far  as  it  went.  He  did 
insult  the  guard  and  he  was  carried  off  to  solitary  confine- 
ment  for  nine  months.  He  won't  talk  much  about  that, 
though,  but  he  had  a  inost  awful  time;  I  honestly  wonder 
that  he  came  through  it  aiive  and  in  his  right  mind.  1 
could  cry  when  I  look  at  the  men  here  and  think  what 
they've  suffered.  But  they  can't  go  through  it  again,  Eric; 
that's  one  of  the  terms  of  their  release,  of  course.  They're 
out  of  the  war  for  good;  and  it  may  be  very  unpatriotic, 
but  I  for  one  say  'Thank  God!' 

"Well,  I  must  come  to  business.  Father  and  I  are  stay- 
ing here  for  another  week,  and  I  want  you  to  do  a  lot  of 
jobs  for  us.  On  a  separate  sheet  you'll  find  a  number  of 
things  that  I  want  you  to  order  and  have  sent  out  here. 
And  on  the  back  of  this  you'll  find  a  list  of  names  and 


230    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

addresses.  There's  so  much  to  do,  getting  this  house 
straight,  that  I've  very  little  time  for  ivriting.  I  want  you 
to  be  an  angel  and  ring  up  all  these  people  and  just  tell 
them  (you  know  them  all,  I  think)  what  I've  told  you. 

"Jack  sends  love  to  you,  and  we  are  all  deeply  grateful 
for  what  you  have  done  and  what  I  know  you  zvill  do  for 
us.    I  don't  think  there  are  any  other  messages." 

The  list  of  names  did  not  contain  Barbara's.  Eric  tele- 
phoned to  her  as  soon  as  he  had  received  the  letter,  though 
he  knew  that  she  would  be  in  bed  and  that  a  tiresome 
footman  would  say:  "I  don't  think  her  ladyship's  been 
called  yet,  sir.  Perhaps  you  would  ring  up  later."  With 
patience  he  got  into  communication  with  her  and  read  out 
the  first  pages  of  the  letter.  When  she  had  thanked  him, 
he  asked  with  trepidation  whether  she  had  heard  from  Jack. 
An  hour  seemed  to  pass  while  she  rang  for  her  letters  and 
looked  at  the  postmarks. 

"There's  nothing  from  Switzerland,"  she  announced  at 
length. 

Eric's  heart  leapt  with  relief.  Agnes  had  written ;  surely 
Jack  could  have  written,  too,  had  he  wished?  In  the  en- 
suing silence  Barbara's  voice,  suddenly  toneless,  came  back 
to  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  Babs,  for  your  sake." 

"Thank  you,  darling." 

"I'll  make  a  point  of  seeing  Agnes  as  soon  as  she  gets 
back  to  England,"  he  went  on. 

"Thank  you,  darling." 

"And,  of  course,  I'll  let  you  know  anything  there  is  to 
know.    Very  likely  you'll  get  a  letter  before  I  see  her." 

"Perhaps  I  shall."  Her  voice  trembled ;  and  Eric,  ceas- 
ing to  weight  justice  or  consider  provocation,  wished  that 
he  had  Jack  Waring's  throat  between  his  hands.  "Well, 
I  mustn't  keep  you  from  your  work.  Thank  you  for  tell- 
ing me,  Eric." 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      231 

"Good-bye,  Babs.  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  amuse  you  to 
lunch  or  dine  with  me  anywhere?" 

"Not  to-day,  I  think.  But  I  love  you  for  asking  me. 
Good-bye." 

For  a  week  he  wrote  to  her  twice  daily,  trying  to  forget 
himself  in  the  effort  to  keep  her  amused.  They  met  once 
at  dinner  with  Lady  Maitland;  and  it  hurt  him  absurdly 
when  as  a  matter  of  rituaf  he  was  detailed  to  see  Barbara 
home.  On  the  day  named,  Colonel  Waring  and  Agnes 
arrived  in  London  and  telephoned,  asking  him  to  dine  with 
them  at  their  hotel. 

Trepidation  had  become  his  normal  mood,  and  Eric 
walked  into  the  lounge  with  his  teeth  set  and  the  muscles  of 
his  cheeks  hard.  The  burgeoning  happiness  of  Agnes  was 
harder  to  bear  than  ever,  but  he  achieved  a  tolerable  effect 
as  the  undemonstrative,  phlegmatic  Englishman  and  min- 
gled suitable  congratulations  with  his  many  questions. 

"I  handed  on  the  good  news  to  every  one  you  mentioned," 
he  said  at  the  end  of  dinner.  "And  to  one  or  two  others 
who  I  thought  would  be  interested  to  hear  it.  Did  he 
send  me  any  jobs  or  messages?" 

"He  wants  a  pipe,  but  father  can  get  that.  I  don't  think 
he  sent  any  messages." 

Eric  looked  at  his  watch  and  begged  to  be  excused.  It 
was  half-past  ten,  and  he  had  telephoned  to  say  that  he 
would  call  for  Barbara  at  eleven  and  bring  her  home  from 
a  party  in  Portman  Square. 

When  he  reached  the  house,  Eric  was  disconcerted  to 
learn  that  Barbara  had  already  left.  He  was  slightly  less 
surprised,  on  reaching  home,  to  find  the  hall  ablaze  with 
light  and  Barbara  lying  at  full  length  on  a  sofa  with  her 
cloak  trailing  on  the  carpet  and  a  bottle  of  eau-de-Cologne 
clutched  in  one  hand. 

She  started  and  opened  her  eyes  as  he  came  into  the 
room. 


232    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Eric,  did  you  go  .  .  .  ?  I'm  sorry !  I  couldn't  wait,  I 
couldn't  bear  being  with  people.  I've  been  asleep,  I've  got 
such  a  racking  headache,  darling." 

Eric  took  a  bottle  of  aspirin  from  the  drawer  of  his 
writing-table. 

"Have  you  had  any  of  this  to-day?"  he  asked.  "Then  I 
can  give  you  fifteen  grains.  Wait  till  I've  got  some  water." 
He  returned  with  a  tumbler  and  two  cushions  and  seated 
himself  at  her  feet.  "Have  you  heard  anything  fresh  from 
Switzerland?"  he  asked.  "Well,  I'm  afraid  I  haven't, 
either.  I  dined  with  Colonel  Waring  and  Agnes  to-night, 
as  you  know." 

Barbara  had  uncovered  her  eyes  to  hold  the  tumbler ;  but 
she  set  it  on  the  floor,  as  he  began  to  speak,  and  shielded 
her  face. 

"H-how  is  he?"  she  asked. 

"He  gets  tired  rather  quickly,  but  otherwise  he's  all  right. 
Leading  quite  a  normal  life,  I  mean." 

His  words  were  deliberately  chosen  to  shew  that  Jack 
was  in  a  state  to  have  written,  had  he  wished.  His  choice 
was  not  wasted  on  her. 

"And  what  now,  Eric?"  she  asked. 

"Isn't  that  for  you  to  say?" 

Barbara  uncovered  her  eyes  again  and  looked  slowly 
round  the  room.  It  had  become  so  familiar  that  she  no 
longer  noticed  its  shape  or  colouring.  Instinctively  she 
knew  that  the  sofa  demanded  a  cushion  at  her  back  and 
that  the  arm-chair  between  the  fire  and  window  did  not. 
But  she  had  never,  until  now,  consciously  observed  the 
carpet  and  curtains,  the  breast-high  white  book-cases  and 
Chippendale  writing-table,  since  the  first  night  when  she 
came  there  and  stood  tossing  a  glass  horse-shoe  idly  into 
the  air  and  stealing  curious  glances  at  the  furniture. 

She  recognized  it  all  now  and  remembered  her  earliest 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      233 

emotions,  remembered  even  telling  him  that  the  first  burn- 
ing cigarette  would  spoil  his  grey  carpet.  But  her  vision 
was  blurred;  she  fancied  herself  seeing  through  the  walls, 
penetrating  a  belt  of  darkness  and  piercing  other  walls  be- 
yond which  she  sat  at  supper  with  an  undemonstrative, 
quietly  determined  young  man.  The  jig  and  stamp  of  rag- 
time echoed  overhead — "Dixie!  All  abo-o-oard  for  Dixie! 
Dixie !  Tak  your  tickuts  heere  for  Dixie !" ;  she  heard  her 
own  voice — "I  love  that  one-step.  Why  did  you  drag  me 
away  in  the  middle?"  and  Jack  Waring's  in  answer — 
"Well,  you  ought  to  be  grateful  to  me  for  getting  you  a 
table  before  the  rush  starts."  That  was  a  few  hours  before 
war  was  declared,  though  the  long  banqueting-hall  of  Lor- 
ing  Castle  had  resounded  with  rumours  and  expositions  of 
war  throughout  dinner.  Almost  at  once  Jack  asked  her  to 
marry  him ;  she  once  ^ore  heard  his  tranquil  explanation — 
"I've  just  been  received  into  your  church." 

A  blaze  of  light.  ...  A  thunder  of  voices.  .  .  .  Out  of 
the  distance  she  heard  him  saying,  "In  fact,  you've  been 
lying  to  me  all  along  ?    You  never  intended  to  marry  me  ?" 

A  blaze  of  light;  and  silence  that  made  her  head  sing. 
Jack's  face  seemed  to  grow  thinner  and  the  gleam  in  his 
eyes  more  brightly  cold.  The  supper-room  was  emptying, 
but  neither  could  decide  to  stand  up  and  say  good-bye. 
Lord  Summertown  and  a  brother-officer  waltzed  in  and 
became  noisily  cheerful  in  one  corner.  Later  they  heard 
a  car  driving  past  the  open  windows;  George  Oakleigh 
appeared  in  the  doorway;  Summertown's  companion  fin- 
ished the  champagne  and  rose  to  his  feet  protesting 
fretfully :  "To  declare  war  in  the  middle  of  supper  is  not 
the  act  of  a  gentleman.  .  .  ."  Then  at  last  she  had  seen 
that  she  had  tempted  Jack  to  imperil  his  soul.  .  .  . 

War  had  seemed  a  small  thing  then,  though  Jack  Sum- 
mertown was  to  be  killed  within  six  weeks  and  her  cousin 


234    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Jim  within  a  year.  It  was  a  thing  remote  and  only  impor- 
tant as  postponing  her  punishment  from  Jack. 

"I  must  get  back  to  London,"  Ije  said  suddenly,  "I'm 
going  to  ask  Summertown  for  a  seat  in  his  car." 

For  dragging  minutes  she  felt  her  soul  being  crucified. 
While  Jack  stood  talking  in  the  hall  or  on  the  steps,  she 
tried  to  conceal  from  herself  what  she  had  done  and,  when 
that  was  impossible,  to  nerve  herself  to  make  reparation. 
Then  she  was  blinded  by  the  glare  of  the  head-lights  and 
opened  her  eyes  to  find  that  the  car  had  swept  beyond  reach 
of  her  voice.  .  .  . 

Once  again  everything  was  warm  and  dark  in  the  sum- 
mer night.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  distant  wail  of  the  orchestra 
died  from  her  ears.  She  had  a  vague  memory  of  going 
upstairs  with  Oakleigh  and  of  seeing  him  draw  Jim  aside 
and  whisper  to  him,  but  between  them  lingered  a  white  face 
with  incredulous  eyes,  and  above  the  music  hammered  the 
sound  of  a  broken  sentence:  "So  this  was  your  revenge?" 
And  then,  calling  Jim  to  witness,  she  made  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  and  swore  that  she  would  offer  herself,  body  and 
soul,  to  Jack,  if  he  wanted  her.  .  .  . 

The  noise  faded  out  of  hearing,  and  she  was  once  more 
in  a  room  of  blazing  light;  a  man  was  looking  at  her, 
silent,  white- faced  and  reproachful;  and  a  new  phrase  was 
beating  on  her  brain. 

"I  want  to  know  what  you're  going  to  do  nowT" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand;  but  Eric  did  not  take  it, 
and  her  eyes  wandered  once  more  idly  round  the  room. 
The  forgotten  curtains  and  grey  carpet,  the  writing-table 
and  neat  pile  of  manuscript  flung  back  to  her  memory  the 
summer  night  when  she  had  first  come  to  disturb  his  peace 
of  mind. 

"I  make  every  one  miserable!"  she  cried,  and  both 
started  at  the  violation  of  their  long  silence, 

Eric's  head  sank  lower;  but  his  eyes  never  left  her  face. 


EDUCATION  FOR  RIPER  YEARS      235 

That  night  she  had  been  like  an  animal  tortured  to  mad- 
ness ;  since  that  night  she  had  taken  all  that  his  love  could 
give  her  and  had  repaid  it  by  torturing  him  to  madness  in 
his  turn,  by  destroying  his  health  and  ruining  his  work. 

"Eric,  I  want  to  give  you  everything,  but  I've  sworn  to 
God!    Until  I've  seen  Jack.  .  .  ." 

"You've  broken  your  oath  in  everything  but  form. 
From  the  first  night  we  met  you've  belonged  to  me  in  all 
but  name." 

"But  won't  you  wait?    Oh,  why  will  you  drive  me?" 

"I'm  not  driving  you,  Babs.  I've  not  asked  for  any- 
thing." 

She  stood  up  and  drew  her  cloak  round  her,  glancing 
once  at  him  and  turning  quickly  away  as  she  saw  his 
hunched  body  and  haggard  face.  One  after  the  other  she 
slowly  drew  on  her  gloves,  looking  with  misty  eyes  for 
her  bag.  As  she  moved  to  the  door,  Eric  rose  and  opened 
it,  gathering  up  his  overcoat  with  the  other  hand.  They 
had  parted  like  this  so  often  that  he  no  longer  seemed  to 
care.  ...  A  four-wheeler  was  ambling  along  Ryder 
Street,  and  he  hailed  it.*  Neither  spoke  until  it  drew  up 
opposite  her  house  and  she  saw  him  fumbling  with  the 
handle.  Then  she  laid  her  fingers  on  his  wrist  and  chok- 
ingly bade  him  stop. 

"I'll  marry  you,  Eric,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,  Barbara." 

She  hurried  out  before  he  could  kiss  her  and  stood  with 
face  upturned  and  eyes  tightly  shut.  God,  who  had  heard 
the  oath  taken  and  broken,  was  free  to  strike  her  now;  if 
He  held  His  hand,  it  was  because  He  had  more  subtle 
punishment  in  store,  .  .  . 

Barbara  pulled  her  cloak  over  her  chest  and  ran  de- 
spairingly into  the  house. 


236    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"Loneliness  may  he  so  intolerable  that  I  believe  God 
would  forgive  us  our  blindest  groping  after  alleviation. 
But  would  God  forgive  me,  if,  in  my  groping,  I  brought 
such  misery  of  loneliness  to  another,  knowing  now  what 
m^anner  of  thing  it  isf" — From  the  Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL 


"Tarn  saepe  nostrum  decipi  FabuIHnum 
Miraris,  Aule?    Semper  homo  bonus  tiro  est." 

Martiau 


"If  you  care  for  a  six-months^  lecturing  tour  in  Amer- 
ica,'^ wrote  Grierson,  "I  have  an  unrivalled  offer.  You 
would  start  in  the  New  Year.  .  .  ." 

His  agent's  letter  was  the  first  that  Eric  opened  on  the 
morning  after  Barbara  promised  to  marry  him.  As  he 
lay  half-awake,  waiting  to  be  called,  he  realized  that  some- 
thing had  changed  the  foimdations  of  his  life;  he  was  at 
peace,  well  and  strong,  with  a  heart  tuned  for  adventure 
and  a  new  tireless  energy. 

Six  o'clock.  .  .  .  Seven.  .  .  .  Eight.  .  .  .  He  carried 
the  telephone  into  the  smoking-room,  lest  he  should  be 
tempted  to  disturb  Barbara,  and  paced  bare-foot  up  and 
down,  wondering  how  to  inaugurate  the  new  life.  In 
marrying  a  Protestant,  she  would  forfeit  the  money  which 
she  had  received  under  her  god-father's  will ;  henceforward 
he  must  work  and  earn  for  two.  In  his  safe  lay  a  brown- 
paper  parcel  containing  the  manuscript  of  a  novel,  un- 
opened since  the  day  when  Gaisford  so  contumeliously 
flung  it  back  at  him.  Eric  carried  the  despised  book  into 
his  bedroom  and  began  to  skim  the  pages.  With  his  new 
sense  of  power,  he  would  so  re-write  it  that  the  doctor 
should  eat  humble-pie;   and   there  would  be  a  slice   for 

237 


238    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Manders  too.  It  was  no  good  trying  him  with  another 
version  of  the  "Singing-Bird";  but  "Mother's  Son,"  which 
had  lain  neglected  ever  since  it  was  sent  back  three  years 
before,  needed  only  a  word  of  change  and  a  touch  of  pol- 
ish. October,  November,  December.  .  .  .  Eric  would  be 
ready  for  America  in  the  New  Year. 

The  next  letter  was  from  Agnes,  begging  him  to  write 
occasionally  to  Jack;  the  next  from  Lady  Lane,  wonder- 
ing when  he  was  coming  to  Lashmar.  A  firm  of  topical 
photographers  respectfully  begged  leave  to  send  a  repre- 
sentative by  appointment  to  interview  Mr.  Lane  and  to  en- 
rich their  gallery  with  a  few  camera-studies  of  the  house 
and  of  the  author  at  work.  The  other  letters  were  in- 
vitations and  charitable  appeals. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  telephoned  to  ask  when  he  could  see 
Barbara,  but  was  told  that  she  had  not  yet  been  called. 
After  two  more  unsuccessful  attempts,  he  sent  a  note  by 
hand,  inviting  himself  to  tea,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
morning  at  work  on  the  manuscript  of  his  novel.  Shortly 
before  luncheon  his  interviewer  arrived  with  an  assistant 
bearing  a  camera,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  flat  was  filled 
with  the  smoke  and  powder  of  the  magnesium  flares. 
Eric  submitted  sheepishly  to  being  "discovered"  looking 
(in  profile)  out  of  his  dining-room  window,  to  being  "in- 
terrupted" at  his  desk  (three-quarter  face),  to  being  found 
taking  a  moment's  respite  for  thought  and  a  cigarette 
(full  face,  with  his  back  to  the  smoking-room  fire)  ;  finally 
he  was  dressed  up  in  hat  and  coat  and  shewn  to  be  saying 
good-bye  in  the  hall.  While  the  assistant  packed  up  his 
camera  and  tripod,  Eric  allowed  himself  to  be  interrogated 
on  his  past  and  future  work,  his  plans  and  views  of  art. 

"Have  you  anything  new?"  asked  the  interviewer,  "I've 
got  all  the  old  stuflf  out  of  'Who's  Who' " 

Eric  spoke  vaguely  of  the  novel,  the  play  and  the  course 
of  lectures  in  America,  remembering  the  threadbare  com- 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    239 

monplaces  of  such  illustrated  interviews  as  he  had  read;  it 
were  fruitless  to  fancy  that  he  could  vary  the  form  or 
fact  of  what  was  being  so  industriously  scribbled  down. 

"Nothing  expected  for  some  months?  I  must  work  up 
the  back  stock.  I  shall  want  you  to  tell  me  in  a  minute 
what  started  you  writing  plays.  .  .  .  Now,  about  your  en- 
gagement ?" 

"My  engagement?"  Eric  echoed. 

The  man  nodded  and  moistened  the  end  of  his  pencil 
in  anticipation. 

"Why,  that's  what  I'm  here  for!  I  don't  say,"  he  added 
apologetically,  "that  this  stuff  wouldn't  stand  by  itself — 
or  come  in  useful,  anyway." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow." 

The  man  looked  at  him  in  patient  surprise. 

"We  supply  all  the  pictures  for  'The  World  and  His 
Wife,' "  he  explained.  "They  'phoned  through  to  know 
if  we  could  let  them  have  up-to-date  photographs  of  you 
and  Lady  Barbara  Neave " 

"But  you  spoke  of  an  engagement." 

"Isn't  it  true,  then?" 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  really  intolerable  1"  Eric  cried.  "I 
don't  want  to  tell  other  people  how  to  run  their  business, 
but  in  common  decency  your  firm  might  wait  for  an  of- 
ficial announcement  in  'The  Times'  instead  of  circulating 
these  rumours " 

"It's  only  a  rumour,  then?"  said  the  interviewer  blankly, 
pocketing  his  note-book. 

As  he  walked  to  Berkeley  Square,  Eric  decided  that,  by 
telling  Barbara  of  his  encounter,  he  would  annoy  her  with- 
out bringing  relief  to  himself.  The  announcement,  when 
it  came,  would  be  made  with  imposing  ceremony  after  a 
meeting  between  his  father  and  Lord  Crawleigh,  an  ad- 
justment of  religious  differences  and  a  distressingly  ma- 
terial discussion  of  settlements.    There  would  be  ponderous 


240    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

debates  and  irritating  disagreements;  Barbara  and  he  both 
needed  a  respite  for  recuperation.  .  .  . 

"I  telephoned  three  times  this  morning,"  said  Eric,  as  he 
was  shewn  into  the  drawing-room.  "I  did  so  want  to  talk 
to  you !    I  was  so  happy  I  couldn't  sleep." 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  either,"  said  Barbara  huskily,  holding 
out  one  hand  and  covering  her  eyes  with  the  other. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

"If  you  like.    It's  your  right  now." 

Eric  let  fall  her  hand  and  drew  back,  biting  his  lip. 

"That's  not  a  very  pretty  thing  to  say,  darling,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  I've  been  haunted  all  night.  It  seemed 
as  if  God  must  strike  me  down.  .  .  .  And,  whenever  I  fell 
asleep.  Jack  was  there,  reproaching  me,  mocking  me " 

"He's  had  his  chance,"  Eric  interrupted  sharply.  "You 
start  absolutely  free." 

"You  mean  he's — rejected  me?" 

After  the  tragic  talk  of  God's  striking  her  down  for  tak- 
ing His  name  in  vain,  Eric  could  not  attune  himself 
readily  to  a  whimper  of  wounded  vanity.  Barbara's  dra- 
matic intensity  had  hitherto  been  convincing,  and  he  had 
never  imagined  that  she  was  unhappy  because  she  had 
offered  herself  to  a  man  and  he  had  repelled  her. 

"I  mean  it's — ^all  over.  You've  no  reason  to  reproach 
yourself,  Babs.  ...  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  seeing 
your  father " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  shudder,  and  Eric  found  a  dif- 
ficulty in  curbing  his  impatience.  Trying  a  fresh  cast,  he 
described  his  latest  invitation  to  lecture  in  America,  Bar- 
bara listened  with  half  her  attention,  mechanically  agreeing 
that  it  would  be  an  experience  and  a  change,  mechanically 
accepting  his  figures  and  wounding  him  with  an  indif- 
ference which  was  made  greater  by  her  early  love  of  shar- 
ing his  triumphs  with  him.     He  hunted  through  a  pile 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    241 

of  letters  and  gave  her  one  in  which  the  previous  occupant 
of  his  flat  offered  generous  terms  for  the  remainder  of 
the  lease. 

"We  must  decide  some  time  when  we're  going  to  be 
married,"  he  said,  "and  where  we're  going  to  live." 

"Please,  Eric!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement  and  drew  slowly  away 
from  her  side,  walking  to  the  fire-place  and  resting  his 
forehead  on  his  arm. 

"I — don't  ...  I  don't  understand  what's  the  matter," 
he  murmured  at  length.  "Last  night  .  .  .  You  did  it  of 
your  own  free  will,  Babs.  .  .  .  And  unless  you  wanted  to 
hurt  me  more  completely  and  ingeniously  than  you've  ever 
succeeded  in  doing  before " 

The  girl  winced  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world!"  she  whispered. 
"Ah!  God!  I  wish  I'd  never  met  you,  I  wish  I'd  never 
been  bom!  Don't  you  see  that  I  couldn't  go  on  taking, 
taking,  taking  with  both  hands — ^all  your  sweetness  and 
gentleness,  everything — and  giving  you  nothing  in  return? 
When  you  said  that  I'd  spoiled  your  work  .  .  .  Didn't  I 
see  that  I'd  already  ruined  your  health  and  made  you  misei»- 
able  ?  I  tried  to  make  amends,  but  it  wasn't  in  my  power. 
I  ought  never  to  have  given  you  that  promise!" 

"Don't  you  love  me  any  more,  Babs  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Well,  what  have  I  done  since  last  night?" 

"You  haven't  done  anything.  ...  It  was  a  letter.  .  .  . 
You  remember  about  Jim  Loring's  ball  just  before  the 
war " 

Eric  drew  her  head  on  to  his  shoulder  and  kissed  her. 

"My  darling,  that's  all  so  long  ago !  Why  distress  your- 
self with  it  now?" 

"Jack  was  staying  with  the  Knightriders,"  she  persisted. 
"Kathleen    Knightrider's   the   only    soul    who's   ever   sus- 


242    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

pected.  .  .  .  I  never  told  her.  She's  heard  that  Jack  has 
been  sent  to  Switzerland  and  she  wrote  this  morning  to — • 
to  congratulate  me!  I  tried  to  make  amends  to  Jack  too. 
.  .  .  Oh,  the  mockery  of  it!  All  last  night  I  saw  the  two 
of  you  pulling,  pulling  .  .  ." 

"He's  had  his  chance,"  Eric  told  her  again. 

"I  wish  God  had  struck  me  down,"  she  whispered. 

Eric  invented  an  excuse  to  leave  early,  for,  when  Bar- 
bara was  not  reproaching  herself  for  the  engagement,  she 
affected  the  abject  humility  of  a  slave  whom  he  had 
bought  for  his  pleasure.  Perhaps  she  was  amusing  her- 
self with  a  new  emotion,  perhaps  she  wanted  to  keep  him 
alert  and  suspended,  perhaps  she  enjoyed  the  vision  of 
herself  torn  between  the  two  men  who  wanted  her  more 
than  anything  in  the  world.  .  .  . 


For  the  second  morning  in  succession  Barbara  did  not 
telephone.  Eric  waited  until  noon  and  then  asked  her  to 
dine  with  him. 

"I  will,  if  you — want  me  to,"  she  answered  with  the  new 
servile  listlessness ;  and  he  wondered  again  whether  she 
was  trying  to  exact  some  novel  abandonment  of  adoration 
or  to  exhaust  him  by  passive  resistance.  "I  believe  we 
liave  people  dining,"  she  added. 

"Well,  choose  some  other  night,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters.  And  I'm  go- 
ing to  the  country  to-morrow." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  in  London  till 
Christmas." 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  ill,"  she  answered  and  hung  up  the 
receiver  before  he  could  say  anything  more. 

Eric  returned  to  his  work,  affecting  unconsciousness  of 
her  alternating  indifference  and  hostility.    In  the  afternoon 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    243 

Agnes  Waring  telephoned  to  say  that  she  was  unexpectedly 
in  London  and  would  like  to  have  tea  with  him.  He  wel- 
comed her  cordially,  only  hoping  that  she  would  not  stay 
long  enough  to  clash  with  Babs,  and,  guiltily  reminded  of 
her  letter,  put  aside  his  work  and  began  writing  to  Jack. 
Once  or  twice,  as  he  paused  to  fill  his  pipe,  the  old  feeling 
of  duplicity  came  back,  as  on  the  Sundays  when  he  walked 
home  from  Red  Roofs  in  jubilation  after  Agnes  had  told 
him  with  her  unchanging  composure  that  there  was  still 
no  news  of  her  brother.  And  now  he  was  writing  a 
gossipy,  facetious  letter.  .  .  .  Eric  tore  the  envelope  in  two 
— and  then  hesitated.  Jack  had  been  given  his  opportu- 
nity, and  he  had  not  taken  it. 

Agnes  did  not  arrive  until  nearly  six  o'clock  and  then 
came  attended  by  a  young  officer. 

"You  remember  Mr.  Benyon,"  she  said.  "We  brought 
him  to  dine  at  the  Mill-House  last  year.  He  hadn't  seen 
'The  Bomb-Shell,'  so  we  went  to  the  matinee  to-day." 

"Jolly  good,  if  I  may  say  so,"  murmured  Benyon, 
"Hope  you  don't  mind  my  buttin'  in  like  this?  Ag^es 
said " 

"I  obviously  couldn't  come  here  alone,  Dick,"  she  in- 
terrupted; and  Eric  wondered  whether  they  would  have 
left  before  Barbara  came  alone  to  dine  with  him. 

He  wondered  too  what  intimacy  Agnes  had  reached  with 
this  young  man  who  was  beginning  to  recur  in  her  life  and 
conversation.  They  had  attained  the  Christian  name  mile- 
stone without  passing  it;  and  she  seemed  to  have  brought 
him  as  a  challenge.  Whenever  Eric  flagged  in  attention, 
Agnes  brought  Benyon  up  like  an  army  of  reserve;  when- 
ever Benyon  fancied  that  he  had  won  a  position,  she 
rounded  on  her  own  reinforcements  and  admitted  Eric  to 
a  private  intimacy  of  conversation  about  Jack.  It  was  a 
new  part  for  her  to  play,  but  no  woman  seemed  able  to  re- 
sist the  intoxication  of  having  two  men  interested  in  her 


244    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

at  the  sarae  time.  If  only  she  knew  that  his  interest  had 
died  more  than  a  year  ago,  on  the  night  when  Barbara  sat 
in  that  room,  on  that  sofa.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  did  know. 
He  caught  her  looking  at  him  with  an  expression  which 
changed  almost  before  their  eyes  met.  Was  it  desperation, 
defiance,  an  indifferent  resolve  to  give  him  one  last  chance 
— or  his  own  hypercritical  fancy? 

They  were  still  talking  when  Barbara  was  announced. 

"Gracious !  Is  it  eight f"  Agnes  cried,  looking  at  her 
watch.  "I  thought  it  was  only  seven.  We  must  fly. 
Dick's  taking  me  to  a  reinie." 

"Won't  you  wait  for  a  cocktail?"  Eric  asked.  "By  the 
way,  I  don't  think  you  know  Lady  Barbara  Neave.  Miss 
Waring,  Babs.    Mr.  Benyon." 

The  two  girls  shook  hands,  and  Agnes  began  searching 
for  her  gloves  and  purse,  hurriedly  declining  Eric's  invita- 
tion. 

"I  used  to  know  your  brother  quite  well  before  the 
war,"  said  Barbara,  "I  was  so  thankful  to  hear  your 
good  news." 

Agnes  looked  up  with  a  quick  smile. 

"We  never  quite  lost  hope,"  she  said. 

"Eric  told  me  that  you  and  your  people  had  been  out 
to  see  him  in  Switzerland.     How  did  you  find  him?" 

The  smile  died  away  in  wistfulness. 

"Well,  he's  alive,  and  that's  the  great  thing,"  Agnes  an- 
swered. "The  doctors  out  there  don't  seem  to  think  that 
he'll  ever  be  able  to  do  much  work  with  his  head  again; 
he'll  probably  have  to  give  up  the  bar  and  live  out  of  doors. 
You  can  understand  that,  when  a  man's  just  begun  to  get 
a  practice  together " 

"But  is  that  quite  certain  ?"  Barbara  interrupted. 

"N-no.  But  it  seems  probable.  There's  a  report  that 
some  of  the  bad  cases  are  going  to  be  sent  home.  Then 
we  shall  see." 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    245 

Eric  watched  the  faces  of  the  two  girls.  Barbara's  ex- 
pressed nothing  more  than  the  conventional  sympathy  of 
one  stranger  hearing  of  another's  misfortune;  a  few 
months  earlier  Agnes  had  not  known  that  Jack  and  Bar- 
bara were  even  acquainted. 

"How  soon  do  you  expect  him  ?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  anything's  been  decided  yet.  And  you 
know  how  long  these  things  take.  .  .  .  Eric,  if  I'd  had 
any  idea  how  late  it  was  ...   1" 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  door  and  returned  to  find 
Barbara  still  standing,  still  in  her  cloak.  The  flicker  of 
animation  which  she  had  presented  on  meeting  Agnes  had 
died  down,  and  she  was  again  the  sport  of  man  and  the 
plaything  of  fate. 

"I  like  her,  Eric,"  she  remarked  thoughtfully.  "Why 
don't  you  marry  her?  Any  one  can  see  she's  in  love  with 
you." 

"You're  the  only  person  in  the  world  I  want  to  marry," 
he  answered. 

Barbara's  face  twisted  in  a  spasm  of  pain. 

"God!  How  it  hurts  when  you  say  that!  Eric,  I  shall 
make  you  miserable  and  be  miserable  myself !  I  love  you ; 
you  know  I  love  you!  But  I  don't  want  to  marry  you. 
Why  don't  you  forget  me  ?    Go  away " 

"Forget  you!"  Eric  gripped  her  by  the  shoulders. 
"What  d'you  think  would  be  left,  if  I  lost  you?" 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder. 

"You  can't  love  me  as  much  as  that,  Eric !" 

"I  love  you  so  much  that  I'd  sooner  have  an  air-raid 
to-night  and  a  bomb  on  my  head  here,  now,  than  lose  you ! 
You're  the  whole  world  to  me !" 

She  shook  her  head  miserably  and  without  hope  of  flat- 
tering reassurance. 

"I  could  have  killed  myself  when  you  told  me  that  I'd 
destroyed  your  power  of  work,"  she  whispered.    "And  to- 


246    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

night,  when  that  girl  said  that  Jack  might  never  be  able 
to  work  again  .  .  .  It's  what  I  should  feel,  if  we  mar- 
ried and  I  couldn't  bear  children!  I  should  be  incom- 
plete, useless!" 

"But  you're  not  responsible." 

"I  might  make  things  easier.  .  .  ." 

So  compassion  was  coming  to  reinforce  or  supplant 
vanity.  .  .  .  Eric  felt  that  he  knew  Barbara's  moods  in 
advance.  Lady  Knightrider — a  curse  on  her  name — had 
started  by  setting  every  nerve  on  edge;  the  sight  of  Agnes 
Waring — with  Jack's  eyes,  hair  and  voice — had  completed 
her  discomfiture;  and  Barbara  had  been  morbidly  drawing 
one  unhappy  picture  after  another.  Jack  was  incapaci- 
tated; and,  with  his  pride,  he  would  never  win  through 
pity  what  he  had  failed  to  win  on  merit.  Incapacitated  or 
not.  Jack  was  a  pauper ;  and,  with  his  fantastic  honour,  he 
would  regard  himself  as  an  outcast  from  Barbara's  society. 

"Even  if  he  can't  go  back  to  the  bar,"  said  Eric  at 
length,  "his  father  will  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  him  a 
job.     Lord  Waring  could  take  him  on  as  his  agent." 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  he'd  starve!  But  it  must  be  such 
a  disappointment." 

"Well,  the  war's  been  such  a  mix-up  that  seven  men  out 
of  ten  will  change  their  careers,  when  they  come  back. 
.  .  .  Babs  ...  do  you  care  for  Jack  as  much  as  that?" 

She  looked  up  quickly  with  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  to — forget  my  promise?" 

"No!  I  asked  whether  you  cared  for  Jack  as  much  as 
all  that." 

Barbara  shook  her  head  in  bewilderment. 

"I've  given  you  my  heart,  Eric.  But  I  owe  Jack  my 
soul." 

Behind  the  neat  phrasing  of  the  professional  trafficker  in 
emotions,  Eric  felt  that  she  was  trying  to  weary  him  of 
their  forty-eight  hours'  engagement.  .  .  . 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    247 


At  the  beginning  of  November  Eric  went  to  Lashmar  for 
a  long  week-end.  After  the  first  days  of  his  engagement 
he  had  hardly  seen  or  heard  anything  of  Barbara.  She 
was  presumably  at  Crawleigh  Abbey,  but  for  a  week  she 
answered  no  more  than  one  letter  out  of  three;  after  that, 
with  a  sense  that  he  could  do  nothing  right  and  that  they 
were  fretting  each  other's  nerves,  he  ceased  to  correspond 
and  was  trying  to  absorb  and  exhaust  himself  with  work. 
Now  his  novel  was  in  the  agent's  hand,  and  "Mother's 
Son"  had  been  sent  to  Manders. 

As  he  dawdled  before  a  book-stall  at  Waterloo,  Eric's 
eye  was  caught  by  "The  World  and  His  Wife"  contents' 
bill,  which  announced,  with  other  attractions,  an  "Illus- 
trated Interview  with  Mr,  Eric  Lane."  There  had  not 
been  time  for  him  to  receive  the  article  from  his  news- 
cutting  agency,  and  he  bought  a  copy  to  read  in  the  train. 
The  pictures  were  well  reproduced,  and  he  was  by  now 
so  hardened  to  the  perverse  inaccuracy  and  genial  blatancy 
of  the  letter-press  that  he  hardly  blushed  at  the  aspirations 
which  were  attributed  to  him,  until  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested in  mid-paragraph  by  Barbara's  name.  Collecting 
himself  and  glancing  almost  guiltily  round  the  somnolent 
carriage,  he  turned  back  to  the  beginning, 

"Rumour  has  been  busy  with  the  names  of  Mr.  Lanef 
and  of  Lady  Barbara  Neave,  only  daughter  of  the  Mar- 
quess of  Crawleigh.  No  oMcial  announcement  has  been 
made,  but  the  young  people  have  been  going  about  together 
a  good  deal  lately;  some  of  our  readers  may  have  seen 
thein  at  the  premiere  of  'The  Bomb-Shell.'  The  Stage 
has  of  recent  years  surrendered  so  much  of  its  beauty  and 
talent  to  the  Peerage  that  it  is  high  time  for  the  Peerage 
to  make  this  romantic  return  to  the  Stage.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lane's 
advice    to    budding    playwrights    is   reminiscent    of    Mr. 


248    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

Punch's  fatnoits  advice  to  those  about  to  marry — 'Don't.' 
Though  the  'Divorce'  was  his  first  play  to  be  produced, 
it  was  not  the  first  that  he  had  written;  like  most  authors, 
he  h-ad  to  buy  experience.  .  .  ." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  rest  of  the  article  to  incrimi- 
nate him,  but  the  offending  paragraph  was  enough  in  it- 
self. Guiltily  Eric  looked  round  a  second  time.  Two  of 
his  fellow-passengers,  slumbering  with  mouths  agape,  were 
clutching  "The  World  and  His  Wife''  to  their  stomachs; 
it  was  the  one  periodical  of  later  date  than  "Punch" 
and  the  monthly  reviews  which  his  parents  took  in  at 
the  Mill-House.  Saturday  was  made  eventful  by  its 
appearance;  even  Sir  Francis  interested  himself  in  the 
full-page  studies  of  actresses  and  debutantes,  the 
house-party  groups  and  snapshots  of  celebrities  in  the 
Park.  .  .  . 

As  he  climbed  into  the  car  Eric  was  careful  to  let  Sybil 
see  that  he  was  carrying  the  paper  in  his  hand.  She  had 
scarcely  wormed  her  way  out  of  the  traffic  and  shot  free 
along  the  Melton  road  before  she  nodded  towards  the 
bulging  strap  of  his  despatch-box. 

"Is  that  true,  Ricky?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

"That  you're  engaged  to  that  woman?" 

"Does  the  paper  say  so?"  Eric  enquired  loftily.  "By 
the  way,  Barbara  Neave  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and  I 
don't  very  much  care  about  hearing  her  described  as  'that 
woman.  .  .  .'  I  think  the  paper  only  said  that  'rumour' 
had  'been  busy  with'  our  'names.'  Rumour's  been  dam- 
nably busy ;  it  won't  leave  us  alone !" 

His  sister  was  silent  for  some  moments. 

"I  hope  to  Heaven  you're  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  with  her,"  she  exclaim.ed  at  length.  "She'll  wear 
you  out,  spoil  your  work,  make  you  bankrupt  in  a 
month " 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    249 

"Isn't  this  rather  sweq>ing  about  some  one  you've  never 
even  met  ?"  Eric  interposed  gently, 

"You  take  such  jolly  good  care  that  we  shouldn't  meet 
her,"  Sybil  answered  at  a  tangent. 

While  he  dressed  for  dinner  Lady  Lane  came  into  his 
bedroom,  more  diplomatic  but  no  whit  less  insistent.  As 
his  mother,  she  was  prepared  to  make  the  best  of  every- 
thing and  to  suppress  her  own  feehngs;  but,  if  Eric  had 
committed  a  crime,  he  could  not  have  felt  greater  distaste 
in  putting  her  off  with  half-truths. 

"You'll  tell  us — when  there's  anything  to  tell?"  begged 
his  mother,  as  they  went  down  to  dinner;  and  Eric  felt 
that  he  might  have  saved  his  elaborate  prevarications  for 
a  more  gullible  audience.  Sir  Francis  made  no  direct 
allusion  throughout  the  week-end,  but,  as  they  sat  over 
their  wine  on  the  first  night,  he  enquired  spasmodically 
how  old  Eric  was,  how  much  money  he  had  made  during 
the  last  year  and  what  literary  ventures  he  had  in  con- 
templation. 

It  was  a  relief  to  walk  over  to  Red  Roofs  next  day  and 
have  tea  with  Ag^es  Waring  and  her  father.  For  an  hour 
he  was  spared  even  indirect  references  to  the  unhappy  in- 
terview, though  in  his  over-sensitive  condition  he  fancied 
that  Agnes  was  unwontedly  frigid  in  manner,  as  though 
a  new  barrier  had  been  placed  between  them.  Conversation 
centred  about  her  brother.  Humanly  speaking,  he  would 
be  released  from  Switzerland  within  a  few  weeks  and 
would  come  either  to  Paris  or  London ;  he  was,  of  course, 
debarred  from  active  service,  but  the  War  Office  would 
no  doubt  test  his  capabilities  of  health  and  brain  either 
in  Whitehall  or  at  the  Ministere  de  la  Guerre.  Eric  could 
count  on  seeing  him  almost  any  day — in  England,  or,  if 
he  could  invent  a  mission,  in  Paris. 

Only  when  she  had  walked  through  the  garden  to  send 
him  on  his  way  across  the  fields  did  Agnes  touch  on  the 


250    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

offending  article.  They  were  standing  on  opposite  sides  of 
a  sun-dial  at  the  end  of  a  fruit-walk ;  and  both  were  recall- 
ing the  earlier  Sundays  when  Eric  had  asked  with  sympa- 
thetically lowered  voice:    "No  news  of  Jack,  I  suppose?" 

"You're  looking  as  if  you  wanted  a  holiday,"  Agnes 
volunteered. 

"I've  been  rather  worried  lately,"  Eric  answered  vaguely. 

"Not  about  that "     She  looked  at  him  and  moved 

round,  slipping  her  hand  through  his  arm.  "/  shouldn't 
worry  about  a  thing  like  that!  She's  so  well-known  that 
the  papers  are  on  to  her  like  cats  on  a  mouse.  ...  I  liked 
her  that  night  I  met  her,  Eric." 

"It  makes  my  relations  with  her  rather  difficult,"  he 
laughed. 

"But  all  you've  got  to  do  is  not  to  meet  her !"  Agnes  ex- 
plained in  a  tone  of  convincing  reason. 

"She's — one  of  the  greatest  friends  I've  got,"  he  said. 

Agnes  rubbed  gently  at  the  tarnished  motto  on  the  dial. 

"That  makes  it  rather  difficult,  of  course,"  she  said  at 
length. 

And  then  it  seemed  easiest  for  him  to  shake  hands  and 
walk  away  without  adding  anything. 

His  family  by  itself  on  one  side,  Agnes  by  herself  on 
the  other  would  not  have  spurred  Eric  to  action.  He  was 
precipitated  by  the  felicitations  of  an  almost  complete 
stranger  in  the  train  on  Monday  morning  and  held  to  his 
course  by  a  succession  of  congratulatory  notes  and  tele- 
phone messages. 

"I  don't  know"  he  wrote  to  Barbara  on  reaching  home, 
"whether  you  have  seen  this  week's  'World  and  His  Wife.' 
There's  a  rather  broad  hint  at  our  engagement,  and  I'm  re- 
ceiving congratulations.  Isn't  this  a  golden  opportunity 
for  publishing  the  nenmT" 

Barbara's  reply  was  tuned  to  an  uncompromising  note 
which  Eric  had  met  but  once  before — at  the  beginning  of  his 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    251 

last  illness,  when  he  had  threatened  to  go  away  from  her 
and  the  threat  had  misfired;  when,  too,  he — "one  of  our 
conquerors" — had  broken  down  and  cringed  to  her;  and 
she,  with  drawn  cheeks  and  leaden  eyes,  had  laid  his  head 
on  her  bosom  and  caressed  him,  not  as  a  conqueror  or  a 
lover,  but  as  a  tired,  sick  child. 

"I  am  so  very  miserable"  she  wrote.  "Sometimes  I 
could  almost  wish  to  die — just  to  get  us  all  out  of  this 
terrible  tangle.  You'd  be  happier — after  a  time,  when  you'd 
got  over  the  first  feeling  of  loss  and  loneliness;  and,  how- 
ever lonely  and  unhappy  you'd  be  without  me,  it  would 
he  nothing  to  the  misery  I  should  bring  you,  if  we  were 
foolish  enough  to  marry.  Let  me  he  your  devoted,  your 
very  loving,  very  grateful  friend!  If  you  try  to  marry  me, 
you'll  he  tnarrying  my  name,  my  voice,  my  clothes,  my 
body;  you  won't  he  marrying  me;  you'll  waste  your  divine 
loire  on  a  woman  whose  soul  is  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world.  Whatever  happens,  I  must  do  you  a  hideous 
wrong." 

Eric  read  the  letter  three  times  and  left  it  unanswered. 

A  very  little  more  of  this  erotic  battledore-and-shuttle- 
cock  would  send  them  both  out  of  their  minds.  It  was  a 
mistake  to  write,  when  both  needed  a  holiday.  He  tele- 
phoned to  his  agent  and  walked  to  Covent  Garden  for  a 
consultation  about  the  lecturing-tour  in  America. 

"I'm  worn  out,  I  must  have  a  complete  change,"  said 
Eric.    "And  I  want  to  start  at  once." 

Grierson  was  surprised  out  of  his  habitual  placidity  by 
the  nervous  vehemence  of  Eric's  manner. 

"You'll  need  a  month  or  two  to  prepare  your  lectures," 
he  pointed  out. 

"You  can  begin  making  the  arrangements  immediately. 
London's  getting  on  my  nerves  rather.  Three  months  in 
the  country,  three  months  out  there— oh,  the  war  may  be 
over  by  then.  .  .  .  I'm  sick  of  England.  ...  If  the  war's 


252    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

still  going  on,  I  shall  stay  away  and  go  on  to  Japan.  You'll 
fix  that,  Grierson?" 

He  jumped  up  restlessly  and  was  starting  for  the  door 
when  his  agent  recalled  him. 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry?"  he  asked.  "There  are  one  or 
two  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  Rather  good 
news,"  he  added.  "Staines  have  accepted  your  novel  on 
our  terms.  I  had  a  fight  over  the  advance,  but  your  name 
carried  you  through." 

Eric  was  not  interested  in  the  figures.  He  was  recall- 
ing the  mood  in  which  he  had  sent  the  manuscript  to  Grier- 
son, when  he  was  working  under  inspiration.  He  had 
grudged  the  hours  wasted  on  sleep  and  food  when  he  might 
have  been  working  for  Barbara. 

"I  seem  to  have  more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do 
with,"  he  answered  shortly.  "By  the  way,  has  Manders 
given  tongue  yet  about  the  play?" 

"  'Mother's  Son'  ?  Yes,  I  wrote  you  last  night.  Didn't 
you  get  my  letter?  Oh,  he's  quite  enthusiastic  about  it. 
He  suggests  a  few  small  changes " 

"Manders  would,"  Eric  rejoined  from  habit  rather  than 
resentment.  He  did  not  care  if  he  never  wrote  another 
play;  he  did  not  care  if  they  returned  to  him  battered  and 
dog's-eared  after  months  of  delay  and  desultory  travel — 
as  in  the  old  days.  Manders  might  cut  the  thing  about  to 
the  top  of  his  vulgar  Philistine  bent. 

"He  wants  to  begin  rehearsing  at  once,"  Grierson  went 
on  slowly.  "And  the  'Divorce'  is  being  revived  at  the 
Emperor's.  You'll  have  three  plays  running  in  London 
at  the  same  time." 

"I'm  not  going  to  stay  in  England  to  please  Manders," 
Eric  interrupted. 

"He'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about  it  before  you 
leave  London,"  said  Grierson. 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    253 

Eric  caught  himself  yawning.  It  was  such  futility  to 
discuss  a  play  in  which  he  had  lost  all  interest. 

On  his  return,  he  yawned  again  over  his  letters.  It  was 
futile  to  hear  from  people  in  whom  he  had  lost  all  interest, 
though  a  Swiss  stamp  and  a  hand-writing  which  he  had 
almost  forgotten  quickened  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"My  dear  Eric"  he  read. 

"Your  letter  was  a  Joy  to  me!  Please  go  on  writing. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  home-sick  I  feel.  I  want  the 
smell  of  London  again,  I  want  to  hear  people  talking  my 
own  language  and  I  want  to  see  'em  in  bulk,  drifting  slowly 
down  the  Strand  from  the  Temple,  Do  you  remember  the 
old  days  when  we  lived  together  in  Pump  Court  f  I  want 
to  go  and  lunch  at  the  club  again  and  have  a  little  dinner  at 
the  Berkeley,  say,  and  go  on  to  a  theatre,  decently  dressed 
with  other  people  decently  dressed  too.  There's  a  chance 
— one  lives  on  hope  from  day  to  day — that  I  may  be  sent 
home;  I  don't  seem  to  be  getting  any  better  here:  all  goes 
well  for  a  time,  and  then  I  get  such  a  head-ache  as  I 
would  not  sell  for  the  minted  wealth  of  the  world.  Of 
course,  that  makes  work  of  any  kind  rather  a  problem,  and 
I  see  myself  looking  out  for  a  job  which  I  can  do  at  my 
own  convenience,  when  I  feel  up  to  it.  The  bar  doesn't 
look  particularly  hopeful,  if  I'm  unable  to  last  out  a  long 
case  or  if  I  can't  appear  at  all;  I'm,  afraid  my  standing's 
hardly  good  enough  to  convince  any  one  if  I  say  I've  got  a 
case  in  another  court.  I  think  you'll  have  to  expound  to 
me  the  whole  art  of  writing  plays;  that's  the  sort  of  thing 
for  m,y  one-hour-on-and-six-hours-oif  condition. 

"You're  such  a  celebrity  nowadays  that  I  suppose  you 
simply  won't  look  at  your  humble  friends!  I  saw  your 
iirst  thing  tJie  last  time  I  was  home — it  seems  like  the 
Dark  Ages  now,  before  my  little  sojourn  in  Mittel-Europa. 
I  imagine  you're  sick  of  hearing  it  praised,  especially  by 
people  who  don't  know  anything  about  it,  but  I  thought  it 


254    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

was  an  amazingly  good  play.  The  moment  I  was  within 
range  of  English  papers — this  was  before  I  got  your  let- 
ter— /  went  through  the  advertisements  to  see  if  you  were 
still  'drawing  all  London'  (I  believe  thafs  the  phrase)  and 
found  that  yet  another  was  going  very  strong.  You  seem 
to  have  struck  oil.    The  best  of  good  luck  to  you. 

"There's  really  nothing  to  tell  you  about  this  place.  I 
believe  you  know  Chateau  d'Oex;  well,  there's  a  little 
colony  of  British  prisoners  of  war  here,  some  more 
knocked  about  than  others,  but  all  pretty  glad  to  be  out 
of  Hunland.  The  Swiss  gave  us  a  great  reception,  and 
we're  allowed  pretty  fair  liberty,  though  we  can't  wander 
at  large  over  the  whole  of  Switzerland.  The  War  OMce 
is  very  busy  trying  to  start  industries  out  here  to  keep  the 
fnen  employed  and  to  give  training  to  the  unskilled  so  that 
they'll  have  something  to  do  when  they're  discharged. 
You  may  remember  that  before  I  was  called,  I  spent  a 
year  with  a  firm  of  chartered  accountants,  so  Vm  supposed 
to  know  something  of  book-keeping.  I  don't  put  a  very 
high  price  on  my  service,  however,  because  my  attendance 
is  rather  erratic. 

"I  suppose  ifs  out  of  the  question  for  you  to  come  here? 
Yet  a  holiday  would  do  you  good,  Tm  sure.  If  you  can't 
manage  it,  we  must  wait  till  the  end  of  the  war  or  till  I'm 
sent  back.  And  then  I  dine  with  you — sumptuously — and 
make  you  take  me  to  the  latest  of  your  popular  successes. 

"Write  again,  old  man.  Your  letter  did  me  no  end  of 
good. 

"Ever  yours 

"Jack  Waring." 

Eric  read  the  letter  twice  and  then  locked  it  in  a  drawer. 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  writer  in  that  he  said  hardly 
anything  of  himself.  That  might  have  been  expected,  and 
there  was  no  need  to  be  frightened  by  the  hand-writing. 
A  moment  later  he  unlocked  the  drawer  and  enclosed  the 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    255 

letter  in  a  note  to  Barbara,  reminding  her  that  he  had  long 
ago  promised  to  let  her  have  any  news  that  came  to  him. 
The  promise  was  before  their  engagement ;  but  the  letter 
would  shew  her  that  Jack  was  capable  of  writing. 

A  week  later  Jack  wrote  again. 

"I've  been  shifted  to  Paris,  no  longer  a  prisoner  of  war, 
hut  a  more  or  less  free  man.  I  could  probably  get  dis- 
charged to-morrow,  if  I  liked,  but  the  army  does  pay  me 
SOMETHING,  and  I  haven't  yet  found  anything  else  that  will. 

"For  the  last  fortnight  I've  been  doing  a  turn  of  French- 
Without-Tears  as  an  interpreter  at  the  ministere  de  la 
GUERRE.  There  was  so  little  work  to  do  that  the  job  suited 
me  rather  well.  Alas!  it  suited  equally  well  certain  others 
who  had  a  better  claim  to  it,  and  I'm  being  transferred  to 
England  next  week  with  a  vague  promise  of  some  light 
duty  at  the  War  Office.  The  best  thing  about  the  new  ar- 
rangetnent  is  that  I  shall  be  at  home  and  shall  have  a 
chance  of  seeing  you.  'Mr.  Eric  Lane,  the  well-known 
dramatist  and  author,  in  his  charming  Ryder  Street  resi- 
dence.' As  you  probably  know,  the  papers  have  been  full 
of  you;  the  gaping  world  now  knows  to  the  last  inch  of 
your  benevolent  smile  exactly  how  you  work  and  smoke 
a  cigarette  and  dress  and  have  your  pyjamas  laid  out.  If 
the  photographs  are  at  all  good,  you  seem  to  Jtave  got 
rather  a  comfortable  billet.  Talking  of  which,  if  you  hear 
of  any  cheap  and  handy  rooms  within  a  htindred  miles  of 
Whitehall,  you  might  keep  me  in  mind.  People  out  here 
tell  me  that  London's  rather  congested.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  chance,  Eric  reflected,  that  Jack  might  have 
glanced  at  the  pictures  in  "The  World  and  His  Wife" 
without  troubling  to  read  the  letter-press.  It  was  so  un- 
likely as  not  to  be  worth  entertaining.  That  he  had  read 
of  the  rumoured  engagement  was  as  certain  as  that  he 
made  no  comment  upon  it. 

Whether  he  had  seen  it  or  not  was  trivial.     All  this 


256    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

pernickety  analysis  was  flooded  by  the  overwhelming  fact 
that  Jack  was  coming  home.  Germany,  Switzerland,  Paris, 
London ;  nearer  and  nearer.  Within  seven  days  he  might 
be  taking  train  for  Crawleigh — to  shew  what  was  left  of 
him  and  to  ask  whether  Barbara  wished  to  withdraw  her 
promise.  Within  six  days  she  might  be  begging  to  be  set 
free,  appealing  to  Eric's  love  and  magnanimity.  .  .  . 

He  determined  that,  if  they  were  to  play  battledore-and- 
shuttlecock  with  their  capability  for  self-sacrifice,  he 
would  strike  the  first  blow  and  stand  ready  to  see  what 
return  she  would  make. 

"Darling  Bobs,  it's  essential  that  I  should  see  you  for 
a  moment,"  he  wrote.  "And  that  as  soon  as  possible.  Are 
you  going  to  he  in  London  next  week?  If  so,  please  fix 
your  oum  time.  If  not,  wJtat  about  this?  I'm  going  down 
to  Lashmar  for  the  week-end  and,  if  you  can  meet  me  for 
thirty  seconds  at  Crawleigh  station,  I'll  come  straight  on  to 
you  on  Saturday  and  then  get  a  train  back  to  Winchester. 
I  can't  come  to  the  Abbey,  obviously,  or  every  one  would 
want  to  know  what  was  up.  The  business  in  hand  won't 
take  a  moment  to  discuss,  but  ifs  absolutely  imperative 
that  we  should  discuss  it  at  once.'* 

As  he  posted  the  letter,  Eric  was  conscious  that  he  could 
have  said  all  that  was  necessary  without  a  meeting,  but 
he  knew  well  that  it  was  far  easier  for  her  to  be  collected 
and  valiant  on  paper  and  at  a  distance.  If  Barbara  chose 
to  accept  his  sacrifice,  she  should  do  it  in  his  presence, 
looking  into  his  eyes. 

''Has  something  awful  happened?"  she  wrote  in  reply. 
"You  do  FRIGHTEN  me  so,  when  you  write  like  that!  I  have 
to  come  up  on  Sunday  for  a  charity  concert  at  the  Olympic, 
where  I'm  a  patroness  or  something.  If  you  really  Tvant 
to  see  me  for  only  a  moment,  is  it  possible  for  you  to  meet 
me  at  Winchester?  The  train  gets  in  at  12.29  ^""^  leaves 
at  12.33  {aren't  I  getting  clever  with  the  time-table?    As  a 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    257 

matter  of  fact  I  made  father^s  secretary  work  it  all  out  for 
me).  If  you'd  like  to  wait  on  the  platform,  I'll  put  my 
head  out  of  the  window  and  we  can  he  together  for  a 
moment.  Dear  Eric,  I  do  hope  you're  not  in  any  kind  of 
trouble!  When  you  become  telegraphic  in  manner,  I  al- 
ways grow  nervous.    Barbara." 

There  was  suppressed  excitement  at  the  Mill-House  on 
Saturday  night,  when  he  put  in  a  claim  for  the  car,  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  driving  himself  and  instructed  the 
maids  with  unusual  particularity  to  see  that  he  did  not 
oversleep  himself. 

"We're  being  very  mysterious,"  murmured  Sybil. 

Eric  smiled  and  said  nothing. 

He  went  to  bed  early  in  hope  that  a  long  night's  rest 
would  steady  his  nerves  for  an  interview  which  would  not 
be  the  less  trying  for  its  brevity  and  which,  he  now  saw, 
had  been  made  inevitably  dramatic.  It  was  a  perfect  au- 
tumn morning,  as  he  climbed  into  the  car,  with  a  scented 
mist  rising  before  his  eyes,  under  the  mild  warmth  of  a 
November  sun;  Lashmar  Woods  flaunted  their  last  dwin- 
dling recklessness  of  colour,  from  ivy-green  through  fad- 
ing red  to  russet  and  lemon-yellow.  He  had  a  rare  feel- 
ing of  peace,  as  he  surrendered  to  the  voiceless  magic  of 
the  still  countryside  and  to  whimsical  memories  of  his  own 
childhood.  Life  was  so  much  simpler  then!  Life  would 
again  be  so  much  simpler  when  he  had  Babs  driving  by  his 
side.  ...  (If  he  could  only  drag  her  from  the  train  and 
take  her  home  to  astonish  and  subjugate  his  parents!  It 
would  be  worth  a  little  mystery  to  effect  that!) 

If  she  dropped  like  a  stone  out  of  his  life,  he  would 
raise  both  hands  to  Heaven  and  pray  God  to  take  away 
his  reason  and  draw  a  sponge  across  his  memory.  .  .  . 

Barbara  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  as  the  train 
drew  into  the  station.  Eric  ran  to  her  compartment;  but 
for  a  time  they  were  victimized  by  the  nervous  antics  of  an 


258    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

old  lady  with  cumbrous  luggage,  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way calling  with  shrill  helplessness  for  a  porter. 

"I  see  your  play's  going  to  be  produced  at  the  end  of 
the  month,"  said  Barbara,  waving  her  hand  towards  a 
paper  on  the  opposite  seat. 

"Are  you  coming  with  me  to  the  first  night?"  he  asked, 

"Of  course!"  She  watched  the  departure  of  the  old 
lady  with  ill-suppressed  eagerness.  "Thank  goodness,  she's 
gone!  What  is  it,  Eric?  Why  did  you  want  to  see  me 
like  this?" 

"I  always  want  to  see  you !"  he  laughed  uneasily.  Ever 
since  he  received  her  letter,  he  had  been  rehearsing  an  ef- 
fective little  speech;  but  it  was  gone  from  his  mind  now, 
and  he  found  himself  nervously  clearing  his  throat.  "Babs, 
I'm  in  rather  a  hole  and  I  want  to  do  the  right  thing.  For 
some  reason  you  always  talk  about  my  generosity.  I've 
been  thinking  it  over,  ,  ,  ,  You're  absolutely  free,  Babs," 

"But — why?"  she  asked  blankly. 

"Before  writing  to  you,  I'd  heard  from  Jack.  He'll 
probably  be  in  England  within  a  week,  I — don't  want  you 
to  feel  .  ,  ."  He  had  to  leave  the  sentence  unfinished. 

Barbara  had  become  very  pale  and  for  a  moment  she 
said  nothing. 

"This — doesn't  mean  that  you're — saying  good-bye?"  she 
faltered. 

"It's  a  present,  not  an  ultimatum,"  Eric  answered 
sharply. 

So  she  could  still  try  to  make  the  best  of  both  worlds. 

"You've  always  been  wonderfully  generous!"  she  whis- 
pered.    "I  can  never  repay  you," 

From  her  tone  and  phrasing  Eric  knew  that  he  had 
failed.  His  own  sacrifice  neither  stirred  nor  shamed  her 
into  equal  generosity ;  the  volley  was  over,  and  the  shuttle- 
cock had  dropped  to  the  ground, 

"Have  you  tried?"  he  asked  sharply. 


THE  STRONGEST  THING  OF  ALL    259 

There  was  a  whistle  and  a  jolt,  as  the  train  began  to 
move.  Eric  stepped  off  the  foot-board,  raised  his  hat 
slightly  and  turned  on  his  heel.  Mechanically  he  set  his 
watch  by  the  station  clock.  The  train  had  come  in  late, 
but  it  was  leaving  on  time. 

"Rather  less  than  two  minutes,  if  anything,"  he  mur- 
mured, as  he  started  the  engine.  "Five  weeks  since  we 
became  engaged.  .  .  ." 

Half-way  home  he  steered  for  a  government  lorry  which 
was  standing  unattended  by  the  side  of  the  road.  Some- 
thing older  and  stronger  than  himself  paralyzed  the  ma- 
levolent muscles  of  his  arm,  and  the  car  swerved  into 
safety.  .  .  . 


"The  slavery  of  centuries  and  her  own  short-lived  bloom- 
ing have  robbed  woman  of  open  initiative  in  sex-warfare: 
she  forces  man  to  make  the  attack,  pretending  indifference 
or  ignorance.  Instead  of  striking  a  bargain,  she  then  in- 
sists on  nominal  surrender,  which  never  deceives  her.  But 
she  is  deceived  by  her  own  false  valuation;  she  can  only 
see  herself  in  the  image  that  she  makes  for  the  beguilement 
of  man.  Vanity  is  the  strongest  thing  of  all." — From  the 
Diary  of  Eric  Lane. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE 


"The  mob  decrees  such  feat  no  crown,  perchance, 
But — why  call  crowning  the  reward  of  quest?" 

RoRERT  Browning:  "Aristophanes'  ApologyJ 


In  the  second  week  of  November  Manders  began  to  re- 
hearse "Mother's  Son,"  and,  after  two  attendances,  Eric 
retired  to  Lashmar  for  uninterrupted  work  on  his  Ameri- 
can lectures.  Jack  might  reach  London  any  day,  and  he 
could  not  face  a  meeting  nor  wait  to  be  told  of  an  en- 
counter between  Jack  and  Barbara.  His  own  rash  mag- 
nanimity had  set  her  free  and  kept  him  in  chains;  he  had 
always  been  so  indulgent  that  he  more  than  half  suspected 
a  strain  of  kindly  contempt  in  her;  she  had  once  told  him 
that  they  would  be  miserable  together  because  he  would 
always  be  too  gentle  to  keep  her  in  order.  .  .  .  Any  day 
now  might  see  him  dismissed  like  an  outworn  servant. 

With  native  caution  he  did  not  pledge  himself  to  stay 
at  Lashmar  for  a  specified  time;  that  would  depend  on 
Jack,  on  Barbara,  on  his  own  work  and  a  dozen  other 
things.  It  was  essential  that  he  should  keep  himself  posted 
regularly  in  Jack's  movements,  and  he  walked  over  to  Red 
Roofs  on  the  morrow  of  his  arrival.  Agnes  gave  him  all 
the  information  that  she  possessed,  but  gave  it  with  re- 
servation, as  though  she  were  conferring  a  favour;  and, 
when  he  left,  she  walked  with  him  to  the  gate  of  the  woods 
and  blurted  out  that  she  was  engaged  to  Dick  Benyon.    As 

260 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  261 

he  congratulated  her,  Eric  remembered  their  last  parting 
by  the  sun-dial,  when  she  had  told  him  not  to  worry  even 
if  gossiping  papers  coupled  his  name  with  Barbara's,  when 
she  had  pointed  out,  too,  that  they  could  end  the  gossip  in 
a  day  by  ceasing  to  meet.  She  did  not  seem  extravagantly 
happy;  each  had  lost  the  other  without  finding  the  perfect 
substitute;  but  Agnes,  with  greater  wisdom  than  he  had 
ever  shewn  towards  Barbara,  had  resolved  that  a  sec- 
ondary place  was  not  enough. 

After  that  he  avoided  the  Warings,  but  Sybil  returned 
one  night  from  Red  Roofs  with  a  report  that  Jack  was  ex- 
pected there  within  three  days.  He  had  seen  a  specialist 
in  London  and  was  forbidden  to  attempt  any  brain-work 
for  three  months;  even  the  easy  experiment  in  Paris  had 
been  a  mistake.  Eric's  mind  was  busy  with  excuses  to 
get  back  to  London,  for  with  Jack  as  his  neighbour,  in- 
valided and  bored,  it  would  be  necessary  to  see  him  daily. 
The  Lanes  were,  fortunately,  too  much  absorbed  in  their 
own  life  to  be  suspicious  of  sudden  changes  in  Eric's  plans; 
affectionate  regret  greeted  his  announcement  that  he  was 
returning  to  London  after  the  week-end,  and  his  sense  of 
the  dramatic  was  grimly  amused  by  the  thought  that  his 
train  would  pass  Jack's  somewhere  between  Basingstoke 
and  Brooklands.  .  .  .  He  might  almost  be  a  criminal  flee- 
ing from  justice. 

A  note  from  Jack  lay  on  his  hall  table,  regretting  that 
they  had  not  met,  but  promising  to  walk  over  to  the  Mill- 
House  the  moment  that  he  arrived.  It  was  followed  by 
another,  full  of  mock-indignation. 

"//  you  don't  want  to  see  me,  you  needn't,"  he  wrote. 
"But  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  holt  to  the  country  the  minute 
you  hear  I'm  coming  to  London  and  then  bolt  back  to  Lon- 
don the  minute  you  hear  I'm  going  to  the  country." 

Of  course  it  was  all  badinage;  and  yet,  if  Jack  knew 


262    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

everything,  the  badinage  might  cover  an  atrocious  hint  of 
his  knowledge.  .  .'. 

"I'm  losing  my  sense  of  reality !"  Eric  muttered. 

The  same  post  brought  him  a  long  letter  from  his 
mother.  Jack  had  come  to  tea  on  the  day  of  his  arrival, 
looking  very  well,  on  the  whole,  though  the  wound  on  his 
head  was  still  visible. 

"He  wants  to  see  you/'  wrote  Lady  Lane,  "and  he  partic- 
ularly asked  when  you  would  he  dozmi  here  again.  I'm 
afraid  poor  Jack  is  in  for  rather  a  dull  time.  He  was  hop- 
ing so  much  to  be  well  enough  to  work,  and  the  sentence' 
of  three  months'  complete  rest  is  a  great  disappointment; 
but,  if  he'll  feed  up  and  rest,  there's  no  reason  why  he 
sJwuldn't  be  as  well  as  he  ever  was;  I'm  glad  to  say  that 
his  uncle  has  behaved  quite  well.  After  doing  nothing  all 
these  years  for  him  or  Agnes  or  his  ow>x  brother,  he  has 
at  last  shewn  some  decent  feeling.  If  Jack  has  to  be  a 
partial  invalid  all  his  life.  Lord  Waring  will  give  him  wliat- 
ever  money's  necessary  to  let  him  live  anywhere  he  likes 
and  take  up  any  hobby  he  likes;  if  he  wants  to  marry  (I 
can't  imagine  that  of  Jack),  there'll  be  a  proper  settle- 
ment. .  .  ." 

If  Jack,  who  was  certainly  not  going  to  be  a  pauper, 
probably  not  even  an  invalid,  had  passed  through  London 
without  coming  to  see  Barbara,  that  meant  that  he  did  not 
want  to  see  Barbara.     Perhaps  he  had  seen  her.  .  .  . 

Eric  telephoned  to  Berkeley  Square  and  found  his  voice 
greeted  w^ith  surprise  and  apprehensive  pleasure. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  the  country!  You  are  getting 
restless,  Eric!    When  did  you  come  up?" 

"Only  two  days  ago.  Babs  .  .  .  Jack's  in  England;  he 
called  here  during  the  week-end,  but  of  course  I  was  away. 
I  ...  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

"Thank  you,  Eric,"  she  answered  quietly. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  263 

There  was  a  pause  which  neither  liked  to  break.  At 
last  Eric  said  : 

"He  didn't  come  to  see  you?  Why  don't  you  recognize 
that  it's  all  over,  Babs  ?  You  say  that  your  soul  isn't  yours 
and  that  you  owe  it  to  Jack;  well,  he's  had  the  chance  to 
come  and  claim  it." 

There  was  a  second  pause  followed  by  a  sigh. 

"It's  hard  to  explain,  Eric.  You  see,  only  he  and  I 
know  how  much  he  was  in  love  with  me  before.  I  was 
the  only  person  he'd  ever  cared  for.  .  .  .  Even  I  didn't  un- 
derstand how  much  he  loved  me  until  that  night."  She 
sighed  again.  "I  don't  believe  that,  after  loving  me,  he 
could  suddenly  cease  to  love  me." 

"You  gave  him  pretty  good  provocation,"  Eric  suggested. 

"But  you  don't  cease  loving  people  because  they  behave 
badly  to  you.  I've  behaved  abominably  to  you.  You've 
given  me  everything,  and  all  I've  done  in  return  is  to 
make  you  ill  and  miserable.  I've  ruined  your  work,  your 
life — you've  told  me  so,  Eric.  I've  been  utterly  selfish  and 
heartless.  You  know  I'm  vain,  you  know  I'm  spoiled,  you 
admit  I've  behaved  atrociously.  But  you  want  to  marry 
me  in  spite  of  it  all." 

"I  love  you  in  spite  of  it  all." 

Barbara  said  nothing,  and  her  silence  was  a  confession 
and  answer.  There  were  a  hundred  reasons  why  Jack 
had  not  come  to  see  her  yet;  his  future  was  uncertain,  he 
must  wait  for  a  final  verdict  from  his  doctor,  he  was  per- 
haps still  chewing  the  cud  of  his  resentment.  And,  when 
the  first  reasons  were  exhausted,  her  vanity  wove  a  hun- 
dred more  in  stout,  impenetrable  protection  against  the 
fantastic  thought  that  any  man  could  tire  of  her. 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  didn't!"  Barbara  cried  at  last.  "Why 
don't  you  go  away  and  forget  all  about  me  ?" 

She  had  trapped  him  neatly,  as  he  had  no  doubt  she 
well  knew. 


264   THE  EDUCATIOxN  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"I  can't  forget  you,"  he  answered,  savagely  conscious  that 
he  was  presenting  her  with  new  weapons.  "Whatever  you 
did,  you'd  be  the  biggest  thing  in  my  life;  I  should  always 
need  you." 

This  time  she  put  her  triumph  into  words. 

"Don't  you  think  that  Jack  may  need  me  as  badly  ?" 

"He's  had  his  chance.  .  .  ." 

Eric  discovered  suddenly  that  the  wire  had  ceased  to 
throb.  Evidently  she  had  quietly  hung  up  the  receiver.  In 
another  moment  she  could  only  have  offered  to  say  good- 
bye ;  and  that  she  would  not  do.  He  was  beginning  to  know 
her  moods  and  her  nature  very  well.  .  .  . 

Lighting  a  cigarette,  he  was  trying  to  think  what  he  had 
been  doing  before  their  conversation  started,  when  the  tele- 
phone-bell rang. 

"Eric?  It's  me,  darling.  We  were  cut  oif.  Eric,  don't 
be  bitter  with  me.  I've  never  done  anything  to  deserve 
your  love,  but  it's  been  so  wonderful  that  I  won't  allow  you 
to  say  anything  which  will  spoil  it.  Some  day  I  think  you'll 
look  back  on  it  as  the  biggest  thing  in  your  life." 


As  soon  as  Manders  announced  the  opening  night  of 
"Mother's  Son,"  Eric  booked  his  passage  to  New  York  for 
the  following  week.  For  the  first  time  he  informed  his 
parents  that  he  was  leaving  England  and  gave  them  to  un- 
derstand that  he  was  very  fully  occupied.  There  were  a 
hundred  and  one  arrangements  to  conclude,  fare-wells  to 
take ;  and,  when  he  applied  to  Gaisford  for  a  medical  certif- 
icate, he  found  himself  packed  off  to  bed  with  orders  to 
stay  there  till  the  day  of  sailing. 

"If  you'll  do  what  I  tell  you,  I'll  do  my  best  for  you," 
said  the  doctor  sternly.  "If  you  won't,  Eric,  on  my  honour 
I'll  wash  my  hands  of  you.    Now,  which  is  it  to  be?" 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  265 

"I  shall  get  up  for  my  own  first  night,"  said  Eric. 

"You'll  do  what  I  tell  you.  If  you're  fit  to  go,  you  shall 
go.  But  I  don't  think  you'll  be  in  a  condition  to  stand  the 
excitement  of  it." 

Two  days  later  Eric  sent  a  message  to  Barbara,  remind- 
ing her  that  she  had  promised  to  come  with  him  to  the  first 
night  and  warning  her  that  in  all  probability  he  would  not 
be  able  to  go.  The  doctor,  he  explained,  insisted  on  absolute 
quiet  and  absence  of  excitement.  It  would  have  been  more 
honest  to  add  that  the  doctor  had  forbidden  him  to  see  any 
visitors;  but  Eric  hoped  that  Barbara  would  hurry  round 
as  soon  as  she  heard  that  he  was  ill  and  before  he  could 
tell  her  that  he  was  not  allowed  to  have  her  there.  It  was 
a  bitter  disappointment  when  his  secretary  brought  back  a 
message  of  sympathy.  Later  in  the  day  he  received  a  pres- 
ent of  carnations  and  grapes.  It  was  only  when  Gaisford 
commented  on  them  next  morning  that  his  disappointment 
was  mitigated. 

"I  saw  her  the  other  day,"  explained  the  doctor.  "She 
was  sorry  to  hear  you  were  ill.  I  told  her  that  I  wasn't 
letting  you  see  any  one." 

"Where  did  you  see  her?"  Eric  asked,  trying  to  keep  his 
voice  unconcerned. 

"At  her  house.  The  moment  I'd  left  you.  I've  attended 
her  since  she  was  a  baby,  so  I  felt  I  knew  her  well  enough 
to  tell  her  once  again  to  leave  you  alone." 

Not  until  the  afternoon  of  the  production  did  Gaisford 
relax  discipline;  then  he  admitted  rather  grudgingly  that 
Eric  might  go  to  the  theatre  if  he  refused  all  invitations  to 
supper  and  came  straight  back  to  bed.  He  was  to  dine  at 
home  and  he  would  be  wise  to  leave  the  house  before  any 
one  could  call  on  him  for  a  speech. 

Eric  tried  to  find  out  whether  a  box  had  been  reserved 
for  him,  but  by  the  time  that  he  had  received  a  reply  from 
the  theatre  and  telephoned  to  Barbara,  she  was  not  to  be 


266    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

found.  Dinner  was  an  agony  which  he  strove  to  make  as 
short  as  possible.  Ordinary  nervousness  was  reinforced  by 
bitter  contrasts  of  this  evening  with  the  night  when  'The 
Bomb-Shell"  was  produced.  Then  Barbara  had  dined  with 
him  and  sat  in  his  box,  comforting  him  in  the  torturing  first 
moments  before  the  play  had  come  into  its  own;  (and  he 
had  driven  a  ring  into  her  poor  finger).  It  had  been  a 
night  of  triumph  for  them  both.  Never,  before  or  since, 
had  they  been  nearer.  .  .  . 

He  arrived  at  the  Regency  early  enough  to  find  the  house 
almost  empty.  Hiding  himself  behind  the  curtains  of  his 
box,  he  watched  the  familiar  audience  seiding  in  place,  rec- 
ognizing friends,  waving  and  calling  out  whispered  greet- 
ings. Mrs.  O'Rane  and  Colonel  Grayle ;  Lady  Poynter  and 
Gerry  Deganway ;  Lady  Maitland  and  one  of  her  boys.  .  .  . 
He  started  and  drew  farther  back,  though  he  was  already 
concealed  by  the  curtains.  Barbara  had  come  in  with 
George  Oakleigh.  They  were  standing  in  the  gangway, 
waiting  to  be  shewn  their  seats.  While  George  disposed  of 
his  hat  and  coat,  she  threw  open  her  cloak  and  pinned  a 
bunch  of  carnations  into  her  dress.  They  talked  for  a 
moment,  studied  their  programmes  and  began  talking  again. 
After  a  few  minutes  George  produced  a  pair  of  opera- 
glasses  and  took  a  leisurely  survey  of  the  house,  Barbara 
looked  with  careless  deliberation  at  the  box  from  which  she 
had  watched  "The  Bomb-Shell";  seeing  no  one  in  it,  she 
looked  away  as  deliberately  and  glanced  at  the  watch  on  her 
wrist. 

Eric  began  to  open  a  pile  of  telegrams.  "Good  wishes." 
"All  possible  success";  such  a  tribute  had  meant  much  to 
him  when  his  first  play  was  produced.  .  .  .  Two  thirds  of 
the  stalls  were  full,  though  no  doubt  there  would  still  be 
enough  constitutional  late-comers  to  spoil  the  first  five 
minutes  of  the  play.  Why  people  could  not  take  the  trouble 
,  .  .  He  pulled  himself  up  and  went  back  to  the  telegrams ; 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  267 

he  would  not  live  through  the  evening  if  he  began  to  excite 
himself  like  this.  But  what  he  wanted  was  to  have  Barbara 
by  his  side,  to  feel  her  lips  at  his  ear  and  to  catch  her 
whisper  of  love  and  encouragement — "It's  going  to  be  a 
tremendous  success !    I  zmll  it  to  be !" 

He  would  like  to  catch  her  eye.  ...  If  the  first  act  went 
even  tolerably,  he  could  allow  himself  to  be  seen ;  perhaps 
she  would  come  and  sit  with  him  for  the  other  two.  .  .  . 

The  lights  were  lowered,  there  was  a  moment's  silence, 
and  the  curtain  rolled  noiselessly  up.  Eric  sat  forward  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stage.  Then,  as  the  first  line  was 
spoken,  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  smothered 
oath.  A  trim  programme-seller  was  tripping  down  the 
gangway  with  mincing  daintiness — down  and  down  to  the 
very  front  row  of  the  stalls.  A  party  of  four  stumbled  af- 
ter her,  whispering  and  groping  in  the  darkness,  while  she 
gave  them  programmes  and  herded  them  into  their  seats. 
There  were  whispered  apologies,  as  they  squeezed  in  front 
of  their  neighbours ;  whispered  thanks  as  one  man  stood  up, 
crushing  himself  back,  and  another  stepped  into  the  gang- 
way to  let  them  pass.  At  last  they  were  in  place !  And 
then  it  was  time  for  the  two  women  of  the  party  to  whisper 
again,  gesticulating  for  a  redistribution  of  seats.  The  men 
fussed  and  fidgeted,  untying  their  mufflers  and  rolling  up 
their  overcoats.  And  then  it  was  time  for  all  four  to 
rustle  their  programmes.  Every  one  was  looking  at  them 
instead  of  at  the  stage ;  there  was  nothing  else  to  look  at ! 
For  three  minutes  they  had  blocked  the  view  for  everybody 
behind  them! 

Eric  was  looking  at  them  himself,  first  indignant,  then 
startled.  .  ,  .  He  could  guess  the  identity  of  the  first 
woman,  though  he  could  not  see  her  face ;  of  the  others 
there  was  no  doubt.  The  refraction  of  the  foot-lights 
shewed  him  Agnes  Waring,  with  her  father  in  the  next  seat ; 
on  the  other  side  sat  Jack.    There  was  no  mistaking  him ;  a, 


268    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

white  circle,  the  size  of  a  florin,  revealed  the  mark  of  his 
scalp  wound.  .  .  . 

After  drawing  back  instinctively  behind  his  curtain,  Eric 
leaned  an  inch  forward  to  steal  a  glance  at  Barbara.  She 
was  in  the  third  row,  six  feet  behind  Jack  in  a  direct  line ; 
like  every  one  else  she  had  seen  the  late-comers,  she  could 
not  have  failed  to  identify  Jack.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  sign 
of  embarrassment;  she  did  not  lower  her  eyes  or  affect 
absorption  in  her  programme;  she  was  looking  at  the  stage. 
...  As  in  "The  Bomb-Shell,"  there  came  a  sudden  laugh, 
sharp  as  a  dog's  bark;  it  was  followed  by  other  single 
laughs,  by  a  boom  of  throaty,  good-tempered  chuckling ;  and 
the  whole  house  was  warmer.  Barbara  did  not  laugh,  but 
her  white-gloved  hands  clapped  like  a  child's.  She  stopped 
suddenly  and  touched  George  Oakleigh's  arm,  pointing  rue- 
fully to  a  split  thumb.  Jack  Waring  sent  up  a  belated  rocket 
of  laughter,  which  started  the  general  laughter  again;  Eric 
saw  him  burying  his  head,  shamefaced,  in  his  hands ;  Bar- 
bara was  peeling  off  the  injured  glove. 

It  was  conceivable  that  she  had  not  seen  Jack,  for  she 
gave  no  sign  of  emotion ;  and,  if  she  had  seen  him  for  the 
first  time  in  more  than  two  years,  this  would  be  the  strong- 
est emotion  of  her  life.  Yet  she  was  watching  eagerly,  ap- 
plauding eagerly,  wholly  engrossed  in  the  play.  Once,  when 
the  house  was  silent  and  concentrated  on  the  stage,  she 
looked  round  with  her  earlier  deliberation  and  let  her  eyes 
rest  on  Eric's  box.  He  started  guiltily  before  remembering 
that  she  could  not  see  him.  Next  she  borrowed  George's 
glasses  and,  after  a  single  glance  at  the  stage,  raked  the  four 
boxes  on  either  side. 

"I  propose  to  give  the  thing  a  trial.  Every  one  must  ad- 
mit that  the  present  position  is  intolerable." 

The  line  told  Eric  that  in  twenty  seconds  the  curtain 
would  fall.  He  had  hardly  any  idea  how  the  play  was  be- 
ing received,  but,  obviously,  he  must  not  allow  any  one  to 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  269 

see  him;  he  could  not  stand  mouthing  inanities  to  a  box 
full  of  people  when  Jack  and  Barbara  were  meeting  down- 
stairs or  when  they  met — unexpectedly — in  his  presence. 
They  were  within  six  feet  of  each  other.  .  .  . 

And  they  would  meet  within  six  seconds.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  burst  of  sustained  applause  as  the  curtain 
fell.  It  rose  again  on  the  full  company,  fell  and  rose  again 
on  McGrath  and  Helen  Graye,  Constable  and  Lillian  Hart- 
ley, Joan  Castle  and  Manders ;  fell  and  rose  again  on  Joan 
Castle  and  Manders  alone.  Evidently  this  play,  too,  was  a 
success.  The  lights  remained  lowered,  and  the  company 
came  forward  to  take  the  calls — with  the  usual  pause  be- 
fore Manders  made  his  appearance,  the  usual  extra  half- 
minute's  smiling  and  bowing.  With  practised  unconcern  he 
looked  for  a  moment  toward  Eric's  box  and  then  looked 
away  again,  as  though  he  had  never  expected  to  see  any  one 
there.  With  a  final  low  bow  he  backed  up-stage,  and  the 
heavy  blue  curtains  tumbled  into  place  at  a  half-seen  move- 
ment of  his  hand. 

As  the  lights  went  up,  Eric  watched  the  customary  re- 
crudescence of  restlessness.  Eager  and  lazy  discussions  be- 
gan ;  surprised,  shrill  recognitions  volleyed  across  the  stalls ; 
the  men  looked  at  their  programmes  to  see  how  many  acts 
remained  and  tentatively  felt  for  their  cigarette-cases.  He 
saw  George  Oakleigh  lean  towards  Barbara,  glance  at  his 
watch  and  draw  himself  slowly  to  his  feet.  The  movement 
was  a  signal  and  spur  for  a  dozen  others.  Barbara  moved 
into  his  place  and  called  a  greeting  to  Deganway  who  was 
on  the  opposite  side ;  he  stood  up  and  bent  over  her,  swing- 
ing his  eye-glass. 

Suddenly  Eric  found  himself  trembling.  After  the  usual 
uncertainty,  which  he  had  been  watching  with  one  eye,  he 
saw  Colonel  Waring  and  Jack  squeezing  past  their  neigh- 
bours. As  they  turned  into  the  gangway,  Jack  stared  slowly 
round  him  and  raised  his  eye-brows  in  faint  surprise  when 


270    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

he  caught  sight  of  Barbara.  They  exchanged  bows,  she  held 
out  her  hand ;  Colonel  Waring  was  introduced,  and  Degan- 
way  excused  himself.  A  moment  later  the  colonel  bowed  a 
second  time  and  withdrew.  Barbara  pointed  to  the  empty 
seat  by  her  side,  and  Jack  stepped  across  her  into  it. 

The  whole  meeting  was  incredibly  suave  and  unemotional. 
They  were  talking — as  any  other  two  people  in  the  theatre 
were  talking — without  any  great  interest.  After  a  few 
minutes  Oakleigh  returned  and  shook  hands  with  noticeable 
warmth ;  there  was  a  short  triangular  conversation  before 
the  lights  were  lowered;  then  Jack  hurried  back  to  his 
place. 

When  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  second  act,  Eric  scrib- 
bled a  note  of  congratulation  and  apology  and  sent  it  to 
Manders  by  the  hand  of  a  programme  seller.  Then  he  put 
on  his  hat  and  coat  and  stole  out  of  the  theatre. 


The  next  morning  Eric  summoned  his  solicitor  and  di- 
vested himself  of  all  domestic  ties  and  obligations  as  com- 
pletely as  if  he  were  leaving  for  the  Front.  A  power  of 
attorney  was  to  be  prepared;  the  books  were  to  be  stored, 
the  wine  sold  and  the  flat  let  if  he  had  not  returned  from 
America  within  a  stated  period.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  I've  more  money  than  I  can  spend,"  Eric  ex- 
plained. "It's  well  invested,  so  that,  if  I  never  do  another 
stroke  of  work,  I  shall  have  something  to  live  on.  Well,  my 
health's  gone  to  pieces,  and  I  want  a  long  rest  and  change. 
This  is  my  opportunity.  I'm  thirty-three;  and  I've  seen 
nothing  of  the  world  outside  Europe.  If  I  start  by  touring 
from  end  to  end  of  America  .  .  ." 

He  was  almost  carried  away  by  his  own  enthusiasm  in 
sketching  out  the  years  of  wandering  which  lay  ahead. 
Central  America,  South  America,  the  Pacific  Islands,  New 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  271 

Zealand,  Australia,  Japan,  China,  the  Dutch  East  Indies, 
Burmah,  India.  ... 

"This  is  all  in  confidence,  of  course,"  he  interrupted  him- 
self to  say.    "I  haven't  breathed  a  word  to  my  people." 

He  lacked  courage  to  tell  them  that  he  was  never  com- 
ing back.  It  would  be  easier  if  the  advertised  three  months 
were  dragged  out  to  six,  the  six  to  twelve.  The  shock 
would  be  mitigated ;  and  he  would  escape  a  scene. 

When  the  solicitor  was  gone,  Eric  stumbled  out  of  bed 
and  unlocked  the  safe  in  his  dining-room.  There  was  an 
infinity  of  papers  to  be  destroyed  and  letters  to  be  written. 
Lady  Maitland  attacked  him  at  the  ill-disguised  prompting 
of  her  own  conscience : 

"Why  have  you  neglected  tis  for  so  long?  I  hoped  to 
see  you  at  the  theatre  last  night,  but  Colonel  Grayle  told 
fne  that  he  thought  you  were  ill.  I'm  so  sorry;  and  I  hope 
ifs  not  serious.  When  you're  able  to  get  about  again,  will 
you  telephone  and  suggest  yourself  for  dinner?  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  your  play,  which  I  liked  quite  enor- 
mously. .  .  .'* 

So  he  was  to  be  lionized  again — with  no  one  to  share  his 
triumphs.  .  .  .  The  next  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Shelley ;  the 
next  from  Lady  Poynter,  proposing  a  date  in  the  following 
week  and  asking  him  to  telephone. 

"You  can  accept  all  these  for  me,"  he  told  his  secretary, 
"or  as  many  as  don't  clash  with  anything  else.  I — I've  got 
to  say  good-bye  to  a  lot  of  people  before  I  start,"  he  added 
unnecessarily.  "Keep  next  Wednesday  free  for  me ;  I  want 
to  get  my  people  up  for  that." 

If  Barbara's  engagement  was  going  to  be  published  at 
once,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  meet  Jack  after  all ;  at  one 
time  it  had  seemed  as  though  nothing  mattered,  but  his  self- 
control  would  break  down  at  such  a  test.  And  Jack's  head- 
quarters were  presumably  still  in  Hampshire.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  letter  from   Barbara  next  day;  and  he 


272    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

searched  "The  Times"  vainly  for  her  name.  Lunching  with 
George  Oakleigh,  he  met  Deganway  who  had  neither  news 
to  impart  nor  questions  to  ask;  at  dinner  Mrs.  Shelley  ob- 
served with  sublime  innocence:  "You  must  have  been  dis- 
appointed not  to  be  able  to  come  the  other  night.  Barbara 
was  there,  and  it  was  she  who  told  me  you  were  ill."  The 
next  day  brought  no  tidings,  and  Eric  had  to  exert  all  his 
strength  to  keep  from  writing.  It  was  inhuman  of  the  girl 
not  to  tell  him — unless  she  thought  that  it  would  be  easier 
to  bear  a  month  later,  when  he  was  three  thousand  miles 
away. 

Four  days  of  silence  dulled  his  capacity  for  suffering ;  he 
felt  that  he  would  not  disgrace  himself  even  if  some  one 
appealed  to  him  as  the  leading  authority  on  Barbara's  move- 
ments and  asked  for  news  of  this  most  romantic  engage- 
ment. In  a  week  he  would  be  shivering  in  the  danger-zone, 
zig-zagging  round  the  north  coast  of  Ireland.  The  power 
of  attorney  only  awaited  his  signature,  the  papers  were 
busily  announcing  his  departure,  farewell  letters  and  invita- 
tions were  pouring  in  upon  him. 

There  was  so  much  to  discuss  that  he  found  his  family 
easy  to  handle.  They  dined  in  Ryder  Street;  and,  what 
with  inspecting  the  flat  (which  seemed  now  to  belong  to 
some  other  life)  and  raining  down  questions  of  no  impor- 
tance, they  contrived  not  to  ask  anything  that  mattered. 
Yes,  he  was  going  for  at  least  three  months — perhaps  more, 
because  it  would  be  a  pity  to  get  as  far  as  San  Francisco 
without  going  on  to  Japan.  Yes,  he  would  certainly  be 
grateful  for  any  letters  of  introduction  that  his  father  could 
give  him.  Yes,  he  had  bought  himself  an  outfit  that  would 
last  him  for  years  in  all  climates.  .  .  . 

Amid  the  primitive  interrogation  Eric  looked  up  suddenly 
at  his  parents  and  sister.  They  and  the  two  boys  in  Salonica 
and  the  North  Sea  were  all  that  he  had;  he  was  fond  of 
them,  and  they  were  devoted  to  him.    His  mother  was  talk- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  273 

ing  as  she  had  done  twenty  years  ago,  when  she  searched 
for  holes  in  his  underclothes  and  socks  before  sending  him 
back  to  school;  but  he  once  caught  her  looking  at  him  as 
though  she  understood.  .  .  .  His  father  had  roused  from  an 
age-long  scholar's  dream  to  remember  a  friend  who  was 
now  a  professor  at  Columbia  University.  Sybil  was  as 
much  excited  as  if  she  had  been  going  in  his  place.  .  .  .  He 
would  never  see  any  of  them  again,  after  they  had  been 
everything  to  him  all  these  years!  And  he  was  sneaking 
away  without  telling  them  that  he  would  never  come  back. 

"You'll  send  us  a  cable  to  say  that  you've  arrived  safely," 
Lady  Lane  was  saying. 

Eric  promised  quickly  and  harked  back  to  the  letters  of 
introduction.  After  trying  for  so  long  not  to  think  of  Bar- 
bara, he  found  that  he  must  not  think  of  his  own  family. 
They  were  still  expecting  him  back  in  April,  "when  the 
weather's  a  bit  more  settled." 

"I  only  wish  you  weren't  going  so  soon,"  said  his  mother 
regretfully.    "Geoff's  due  for  leave  next  month." 

"Tell  him  I  was  sorry  to  miss  him,"  Eric  answered.  "I'm 
afraid  the  boat  won't  wait  for  me." 

He  walked  back  with  them  to  their  hotel  and  said  good- 
bye in  the  hall,  explaining  that  he  was  unlikely  to  see  them 
next  day.  He  had  promised  to  lunch  with  Manders  and  to 
dine  with  the  Poynters ;  and,  though  either  engagement 
might  have  been  cancelled,  he  could  not  screw  himself  up 
to  a  second  parting. 

It  was  curious  to  feel,  as  he  walked  home,  that  he  was 
beginning  the  last  day  of  his  life  in  London.  Only  once 
more  would  he  unlock  the  street  door  and  enter  the  dimly- 
lit  hall  which  Barbara  had  invaded  fifteen  months  before.  .  .  . 
In  the  morning  he  bade  awkward  farewell  to  his  secretary. 
On  his  way  to  luncheon  he  paused  on  the  steps  of  the  Thes- 
pian, trying  to  see  it  as  a  club  and  not  as  one  of  many  places 
where  Barbara  had  telephoned  to  him.  .  .  .  Manders,  of 


274    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

course,  insisted  on  a  champagne  luncheon  to  wish  him  God- 
speed; at  intervals  he  asked  how  long  the  tour  was  to  be; 
and  Eric  wondered  whether  a  suicide  or  a  condemned  man 
went  through  this  recurrent  sense  of  parting,  recurrently 
spiced  with  surprise.  He  would  never  sit  in  the  oak- 
panelled  dining-room  again,  never  see  Manders  again.  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  ritual  of  the  day  he  could  not  grow  ac- 
customed to  saying  good-bye.  It  was  all  so  familiar;  he 
never  persuaded  himself  that  everything  was  over.  By  an 
error  of  judgement  he  was  several  minutes  late  in  reaching 
Belgrave  Square,  as  when  first  he  dined  there.  Lady  Poyn- 
ter  protested  that  she  had  given  up  hope  of  him.  Her  hus- 
band took  him  aside  to  enquire  whether  he  found  Gabarnac 
too  sweet,  because  he  had  a  bottle  on  which  he  would  value 
expert  opinion.  It  was  all  so  like  the  night  of  fifteen 
months  ago  that  Eric  could  not  believe  his  passage  was 
booked  and  his  trunks  packed.  Lady  Poynter  began  count- 
ing her  guests  with  jerks  of  a  fat,  slow  forefinger.  "Two, 
three,  five,  seven,  nine,  eleven.  .  .  .  Then  there's  one 
more.    Ah !" 

She  looked  over  Eric's  shoulder  as  the  door  opened  and 
the  butler  announced : 

'Lady  Barbara  Neave." 

Under  the  blaze  of  the  chandelier  and  amid  a  chorus  of 
"Babs  darling!"  "Hullo,  Babs,"  Eric  found  no  difficulty  in 
remaining  composed.  She  was  the  more  surprised  of  the 
two,  for,  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  him,  she  turned  to 
Lady  Poynter,  crying: 

"Margaret,  you  must  send  him  home  at  once !  He's  been 
very  ill  and  he's  no  business  to  be  out  of  bed!" 

"But  he's  going  to  America  to-morrow,  he  was  telling 
us." 

For  a  moment  Barbara's  face  was  blank.  She  recovered 
quickly  and  repeated:  "To-morrow^  I've  simply  lost  all 
count  of  time." 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  275 

"Including  dinner,  darling,"  said  Lady  Poynter,  with  a 
meaning  glance  at  the  clock. 

It  was  all  so  familiar  that  Eric's  sense  of  probability 
would  have  been  outraged,  if  he  had  not  been  put  next  to 
Barbara. 

'Tm  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Eric,"  she  whispered. 
"Dr.  Gaisford  was  so  gloomy  about  you.  .  .  .  How  long 
have  you  been  allowed  out?" 

"Oh,  a  week." 

"And  you  never  told  me?  You  never  wrote  or  tele- 
phoned  " 

Eric  felt  his  face  stiffening  into  unamiable  lines  as  he 
remembered  the  agony  of  the  first  four  days'  silence. 

"You  never  wrote  or  telephoned  to  me,"  he  interrupted. 

"The  doctor  told  me  I  mustn't.  He  put  me  on  my  honour. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  didn't  really  break  my  word  when  I  sent 
you  those  flowers."  Her  hand  stole  out  and  sought  his  un- 
der the  table.  "Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  kind 
to  let  me  know?  Don't  you  think  it's  possible  I  may  have 
been  worrying  about  you  ?" 

Eric  dropped  his  napkin  and  picked  it  up  again  for  an  ex- 
cuse to  escape  her  hand. 

"Isn't  it  rather  late  in  the  day  to  begin  worrying?"  he 
asked.  The  girl  winced  and  bit  her  lip.  "I  was  only  a  bit 
overwrought,"  he  added.  "Now  I'm  rather  less  over- 
wrought.   There  was  nothing  else  to  tell  you." 

"About  America?  I  saw  it  in  some  paper,  but  I  didn't 
bother  about  the  date.  I  didn't  think  it  necessary.  Eric — 
Eric,  you  weren't  going  away  without  saying  good-bye?" 

He  turned  upon  her  so  suddenly  that  she  was  frozen  into 
silence. 

"Would  you  have  had  anything  to  say,  if  you  hadn't 
promised  Gaisford  not  to  communicate  with  me?" 

"The  usual  things,  Eric.    I'd  have  told  you  what  I  was 


276    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

doing,  I'd  have  sent  you  my  love.  If  you're  tired  of  that, 
darling " 

"Not  that,  Barbara !" 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  with  distress. 

"Eric,  what's  the  matter?  What  have  I  done?  Mayn't 
I  even  call  you  'darling'  now?" 

"Are  you  being  quite  honest,  Barbara?" 

"Thank  you,  Eric !" 

"Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  since  last  time?" 

She  looked  at  him  imperiously  and  considered  her  words 
before  speaking, 

"The  last  time  we  met?  Or  the  last  time  we  corre- 
sponded? Which  d'you  mean?  The  last  time  we  corre- 
sponded was  when  your  secretary  telephoned  to  thank  me 
for  the  flowers.  Before  that,  you  sent  me  a  message  by 
her  that  you  probably  wouldn't  be  well  enough  to  take  me  to 
your  first  night.  ...  I'd  have  come  round  the  evening  be- 
fore if  Dr.  Gaisford  hadn't  made  me  promise  not  to.  I've 
always  said  that  I'd  come  to  you  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 
if  you  were  ill.  When  I  heard  that  you  weren't  allowed  to 
see  any  one " 

"It  wasn't  as  bad  as  that,"  Eric  interrupted.  "Gaisford 
let  me  get  up  for  the  first  night.  I — caught  sight  of  you 
in  the  distance.    But  I  left  after  the  first  interval," 


From  the  end  of  the  table  Lady  Poynter  was  making  des- 
perate attempts  to  attract  Eric's  attention. 

"Mr.  Lane,  you're  the  only  person  who  can  tell  us 
this " 

Barbara  touched  his  wrist  and  nodded  past  him. 

"Margaret's  trying  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

Eric  galvanized  his  attention  and  turned  with  a  murmur 
of  apology. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  277 

*'Mr.  Lane,  is  it  true  that  'Mother's  Son'  was  refused 
three — timesf"  Lady  Poynter  asked.  She  could  not  have 
been  more  righteously  indignant  if  she  had  been  judging  the 
three  denials  of  Saint  Peter.  "I've  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing!" 

"It  wasn't  quite  in  its  present  form,"  Eric  explained. 
"The  theme's  the  same,  but  I've  rewritten  almost  every 
word." 

Lady  Poynter  nodded  triumphantly. 

"Ah!  Then  I  was  right!"  she  informed  her  neighbour, 
and  Eric  was  free  to  turn  again  to  Barbara. 

"Where  had  we  got  to?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  em- 
barrassed silence. 

"You  came  to  the  theatre  after  all.  You  saw  me.  You 
left  after  the  first  interval,"  she  reminded  him  fearlessly. 
"As  you  seem  to  be — drawing  an  indictment,  is  that  the 
phrase  ? — don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  on  ?" 

"There's  nothing  more  to  say.  Once  or  twice  I  wondered 
whether  I  should  get  home  alive ;  and,  on  my  soul,  I  prayed 
the  whole  time  that  I  shouldn't.  .  .  .  I'm  not  drawing  an 
indictment.  I  rather  expected  to  hear  from  you.  ...  It 
wasn't  easy  waiting.  ...  As  for  America,  I  didn't  see  how 
it  could  possibly  interest  you.  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  and 
whispered  to  himself,  "God!  what  those  days  of  waiting 
were  like !  I  should  have  thought  that,  after  what  you'd 
been  through  ...  in  common  humanity " 

"And  if  I  had  nothing  to  tell  you  ?"  she  interrupted. 

For  a  moment  Eric  did  not  understand  her.  For  all  her 
self-possession,  there  were  shadows  under  her  eyes,  and  she 
was  haggard  as  on  the  night  when  they  first  met.  Jack's  ap- 
pearance, then,  and  their  conversation  together  had  made 
no  difference  ...  no  difference  one  way  or  the  other;  she 
had  not  telephoned  because  there  was  nothing  to  tell  him. 

"I  don't  think  I've  anything  more  to  say,  Babs." 

An  arm  interposed  itself  between  them,  and  he  looked 


278    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

down  to  see  what  was  being  put  before  him.  To  his  sur- 
prise they  had  only  reached  the  fish.  He  seemed  to  have 
been  dining  for  an  eternity ! 

"D'you  care  to  hear  what  happened  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  d'you  think  I'm  made  of  ?"  he  muttered. 

Barbara  began  eating  her  fish  and  telling  her  story  at  the 
same  time.  It  was  short,  and  she  gave  it  in  jerky  little 
sentences.  George  Oakleigh  had  telephoned  to  say  that  he 
had  two  stalls  for  "Mother's  Son"  and  would  be  delighted 
if  she  would  dine  and  go  with  him.  .  .  .  They  arrived  and 
saw  a  certain  number  of  friends.  ...  At  the  end  of  the 
first  act  George  went  out  to  smoke  a  cigarette.  .  .  .  She  had 
just  begun  talking  to  Gerry  Deganway  when  she  looked  up 
and  caught  Jack's  eye.  .  .  .  They  were  both  so  much  sur- 
prised that  they  became  praetematurally  natural.  .  .  , 

"I  said :  'I've  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time.  I  heard  you 
were  home.'  He  said :  'I  got  back  a  fortnight  ago.'  I  asked 
him  how  he  was  and  whether  he'd  had  a  very  awful  time 
in  Germany.  .  .  .  And  he  laughed  and  said  he  was  glad,  on 
the  whole,  that  it  was  all  over,  but  that  he  was  a  fair  Ger- 
man scholar  now — or  something  of  that  kind — and  he'd 
never  have  taken  the  trouble  to  learn  another  language  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  war.  ...  I  think  he  didn't  find  it  easy 
to  slip  away;  and  I  hate  people  leaning  over  me,  when 
they're  talking,  so  I  asked  him  to  sit  down  till  George  came 
back.  Then  the  only  thing  we  talked  about  was  his  being 
wounded  and  taken  prisoner.  I'd  heard  it  all  before,  of 
course,  but  I  felt  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  we  both  stopped  talk- 
ing. .  .  .  Then  George  came  along  and  shook  hands,  .  .  . 
And  a  moment  later  Jack  went  back  to  his  place.  You 
see,  there  wasn't  very  much  to  tell  you." 

"But  is  that  all?" 

"Absolutely  all,"  she  sighed. 

Eric  lapsed  into  silence,  wishing  that  his  brain  were  not 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  279 

half  paralyzed.  Then  he  glanced  round  the  table,  counting 
their  numbers. 

"Say  you're  too  tired  to  play  bridge,  Babs,"  he  begged. 
"Or  say  you  want  to  talk  to  me  before  I  go  away;  we're 
such  common  property  here  that  no  one  will  be  surprised. 
It's  our  last  chance;  we  may  never  meet  again " 

"But,  Eric ?" 

"Yes!  ...  I  haven't  told  even  my  own  people.  This  is 
not  blackmail,  because  I  arranged  it  all  before  I  saw  you ; 
I  never  expected  to  see  you  again  after  that  night  at  the 
theatre.  I  was  just  trj'ing  to  save  something  out  of  the 
wreckage.  .  .  .  I'm  going  away  nominally  for  three  months, 
but  I'm  not  coming  back.  I  could  have  got  on  happily 
enough,  if  you'd  never  come  into  my  life;  but,  once  you 
were  there,  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  you.  I  couldn't  go  on  liv- 
ing in  England  with  you  half  a  mile  away,  carved  out  of  my 
life  .  .  .  meeting  you,  seeing  you — and  knowing  that  it  was 
all  over.  I've  looked  on  you  as  my  wife;  if  you  ran  away 
from  me  and  lived  with  another  man,  I  couldn't  keep  on  a 
fiat  next  to  yours.  ...  I  felt  it  at  the  theatre ;  I  felt  I  must 
clear  out ;  I  couldn't  sink  back  to  any  passionless  friendship. 
So  I  arranged  to  go  away  and  stay  away.  After  three 
months  I  shall  say  that  I'm  going  for  a  holiday  in  South 
America — or  Japan.  I've  been  moving  quickly  the  last  few 
days.  This  morning — and  this  afternoon — I  knew  that 
everything  I  was  doing  was  for  the  last  time.  And  since 
I've  seen  you " 

He  looked  round  apprehensively,  fearful  that  he  was  be- 
ing overheard. 

"You're  going  away  like  this  from  your  people?  But 
they  love  you,  Eric!  They're  so  proud  of  you!  You'll 
break  their  hearts !" 

"I  shouldn't  have  done  it  eighteen  months  ago — ^before 
you  took  my  education  in  hand,"  he  answered  bitterly. 
"I've  given  myself  heart  and  soul  to  you." 


28o   THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

He  hardly  cared  now  whether  the  servants  or  his  neigh- 
bours heard  him,  and  Barbara  had  to  press  his  knee  to  re- 
strain him. 

"Then  will  you  do  something  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  back.  Come  back  in  three  months, 
when  they  expect  you." 

"And  then?" 

"I'm  not  asking  for  myself !  I'm  asking  for  them.  You 
can't  be  so  wicked!  It's  not  like  you;  I  don't  know  you 
when  you  talk  like  this.    You'd  break  their  hearts !" 

"I  don't  know  that  this  comes  well  from  you,  Babs." 

"Nothing  comes  well  from  me.  But,  if  I  can't  undo  the 
harm  I've  done,  I  may  at  least  stop  adding  to  it.  If  you 
don't  come  back  .  .  .  When  it's  too  late,  you'll  never  for- 
give yourself." 

He  shook  his  head  and  looked  at  her  defiantly. 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  when  we  first  met  in 
this  room.  Only  one  thing  will  bring  me  back  or  keep  me 
from  going." 

"Dear  Eric,  don't  start  that  again !" 

"Thanks !  It  doesn't  amuse  me  to  be  strung  up  and  cut 
down  and  strung  up  again.  ...  I  was  facing  things — till 
Lady  Poynter  shewed  the  devilish  irony  to  arrange  this 
meeting." 

"Won't  you  come  back  for  my  sake  ?"  she  whispered. 

"To  be  told  that  you're  going  to  marry  some  one  else  ?" 

"You  may  not  be  told  that.    I  don't  know." 

Eric  was  filled  with  a  blaze  of  anger;  he  had  to  pause 
long  before  he  could  be  sure  of  his  voice. 

"You  still  don't  want  to  let  me  go  ?  The  pathetic  invoca- 
tion of  my  mother " 

Barbara  tried  to  speak  and  then  turned  away  with  a  help- 
less shrug.  Eric  woke  from  a  trance  to  a  thunder  of  op- 
posing voices.    Lady  Poynter  was  retailing  the  secret  his- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  281 

tory  of  the  latest  political  crisis  and  the  fall  of  the  Coalition 
Government.  His  wheezing,  well-fed  host  was  attacking  the 
Board  of  Trade  with  ill-disguised  venom.  "They've  cut 
down  imports  to  such  an  extent,"  he  was  saying,  "that  in  six 
months'  time  you  won't  be  able  to  get  a  cigar  fit  to  smoke. 
I  went  to  my  man  this  morning — he's  a  fellow  I've  dealt 
with  all  my  life,  and  my  father  before  me — he  promised  me 
half  a  cabinet — and  then  made  a  favour  of  it!"  Another 
voice  enquired  in  a  drawl :  "What  is  it  exactly  that  you're 
lecturing  on,  Mr.  Lane  ?" 

Barbara's  head  was  still  turned  from  him,  and  he  resigned 
himself  to  the  reshuffle,  noticing  with  surprise  that  a  finger- 
bowl  had  been  placed  in  front  of  him.  He  could  not  re- 
member having  eaten  anything  since  the  fish.  And  he  had 
been  drinking  the  rather  sickly  Gabarnac  without  tasting  it. 

"You  asked  my  opinion  of  this  wine,  sir,"  he  said  to  Lord 
Poynter,  belatedly  attentive ;  in  a  moment  he  was  swallowed 
up  in  a  discussion  which  dragged  its  way  through  dessert 
until  Lady  Poynter  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rustled  ma- 
jestically to  the  door. 

She  was  hardly  outside  the  room  before  his  host  sidled 
conspiratorially  into  the  empty  chair  next  him. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  still  champagne?"  he  enquired 
darkly,  as  though  he  were  giving  a  pass-word. 

"I've  drunk  it,  of  course,"  answered  Eric. 

"Of  course?"  Lord  Poynter  echoed.  "My  dear  friend, 
not  one  man  in  twenty  thousand  of  your  generation  has 
even  heard  of  still  champagne.  .  .  ." 

It  was  all  wonderfully  like  that  first  night  fifteen  months 
before.  Lord  Poynter  explained  for  the  tenth  time  that  he 
never  allowed  coffee  to  be  brought  in  until  the  port  wine 
had  circulated  for  twenty  minutes.  Not  for  the  first  time 
he  apologized  for  his  brandy,  retailed  the  tragedy  of  the 
last  bottle  of  Waterloo  and,  like  a  sluggard  dragging  him- 
self from  bed,  reluctantly  moved  the  adjournment. 


282    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

They  arrived  in  the  drawing-room  to  find  three  tables  set 
for  bridge.  Though  he  had  asked  her  to  talk  to  him,  Eric 
was  relieved  to  find  Barbara  already  playing ;  he  had  nothing 
more  to  say.  There  was  nothing,  indeed,  to  keep  a  man 
whose  train  left  Euston  before  noon  next  day.  He  waited 
till  Lady  Poynter  was  dummy  and  then  asked  her  to  ex- 
cuse him. 

"Well,  I  expect  you've  a  great  deal  to  do,"  she  said,  shak- 
ing hands  reluctantly. 

"Oh,  Eric,  aren't  you  going  to  take  me  home  ?" 

Barbara  threw  out  the  question  casually,  but  she  found 
time  to  look  up  and  beseech  him  with  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  long  ?"  he  asked  in  the  same  tone. 

"They're  a  game  and  sixteen.  If  you'll  smoke  one  cig- 
arette ..." 

In  the  next  hand  Barbara  was  dummy.  After  spreading 
out  her  cards,  she  looked  round  the  room,  picked  up  a  re- 
view and  two  library  novels  from  a  side  table  and,  after  a 
cursory  glance,  walked  to  the  piano.  The  bridge-players 
looked  up,  as  she  began  to  sing;  an  impatient,  "It's  you  to 
play.  Lady  Poynter,"  passed  unheeded;  and,  one  after  an- 
other, they  laid  down  their  hands. 

"One  Ane  day,  we'll  notice 
A  thread  of  smoke  arising  on  the  sea 
In  the  far  horizon, 
And  then  the  ship  appearing; — 
Then  the  trim  white  vessel 

Glides  into  the  harbour,  thunders  forth  her  cannon. 
See  youf    He  is  coming! 
I  do  not  go  to  meet  him.    Not  I.    I  stay 
Upon  the  brow  of  the  hillock  and  wait,  and  xvait 
For  a  long  time,  but  never  weary 
Of  the  long  waiting. 
From  out  the  crowded  city. 
There  is  coming  a  man — 

A  little  speck  in  the  distance,  climbing  the  hillock. 
Can  you  guess  who  it  isf 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  283 

And  when  he's  reached  the  summit 

Can  you  guess  what  he'll  say? 

He  will  call  'Butterfly'  from  the  distance. 

I,  without  answering. 

Hold  myself  quietly  concealed, 

A  bit  to  tease  him,  and  a  bit  so  as  not  to  die 

At  our  first  meeting:  and  then,  a  little  troubled. 

He  will  call,  he  imll  call: 

'Dear  haby-zvife  of  mine,  dear  little  orange-blossom!' 

The  names  he  used  to  call  me  when  he  came  here.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear,  why  don't  you  use  that  beautiful  voice  of 
yours  more?"  asked  Lady  Poynter,  as  she  ended. 

Barbara's  face  was  in  shadow,  but  Eric  could  see  that  she 
was  looking  across  the  room  at  him. 

"Oh,  not  one  person  in  ten  million  ever  wants  me  to 
sing,"  she  laughed,  as  she  came  back  to  the  table. 

Five  minutes  later  she  opened  her  purse,  pushed  a  note 
across  to  Lady  Poynter  and  came  up  to  Eric  with  a  smile 
of  gratitude. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  been  long,"  she  said.  "Shall  we  see  if 
we  can  find  a  taxi  ?" 


They  crossed  Belgrave  Square  and  reached  Hyde  Park 
Corner  in  silence.  Then  Eric  felt  a  drag  at  his  arm,  and 
Barbara  whispered  :     "I'm  so  tired !" 

"I'm  afraid  there's  not  a  taxi  in  sight,"  he  said.  "Shall 
we  go  by  tube  to  Dover  Street  ?" 

"We  may  meet  a  taxi.  Eric,  d'you  remember  the  first 
time ?" 

He  shook  free  of  her  arm,  as  though  it  were  eating  into 
his  flesh. 

"You  felt  the  evening  wouldn't  be  complete  without  that 
—after  'Butterfly'  ?"  he  asked. 

Barbara  stood  still,  swaying  slightly  until  he  caught  her 
yvrist. 


284    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

"I'm  shutting  my  eyes  and  thinking  of  the  past,  the  time 
when  we  were  happy,"  she  gasped.  "I  can't  face  the  pres- 
ent." 

"You  can  face  it  as  philosophically  as  I  can,"  he  an- 
swered, "If  love  were  stronger  than  vanity  ...  I  don't 
blame  you.  I  only  blame  myself  because  I  was  fool  enough 
to  believe  a  woman's  word,  fool  enough  to  think  that,  if  I 
gave  her  everything,  she  might  give  me  something  in  re- 
turn; that,  if  I  shewed  her  enough  magnanimity,  I  might 
shame  her  into  being  magnanimous.  I  was  hopelessly  un- 
educated in  those  days." 

Barbara  held  up  her  hands  as  though  each  word  struck 
her  in  the  face. 

"D'you  want  to  part  like  this  ?"  she  whispered.  "Wouldn't 
you  rather  remember  the  times  when  I  came  to  you  and 
cried — and  you  made  me  happy?  I  came  to  you  when  I 
was  ill;  and  you  just  kissed  me  or  stroked  my  forehead, 
and  I  was  better.  And  once  or  twice,  when  you  were  ill,  I 
came  to  you  and  laid  your  head  on  my  breast.  .  .  . 
Wouldn't  you  rather  remember  that,  darling?" 

"If  J  could  only  forget  it,  I  shouldn't  regret  so  bitterly  the 
day  when  we  first  met." 

She  swayed  again  and  caught  hold  of  the  wooden  stand- 
ard of  a  porter's  rest.  There  was  still  no  taxi  in  sight; 
Eric  felt  her  pulse  and  dived  into  his  pocket  for  a  flask.  He 
had  never  before  noticed  the  rest  or  its  inscription  in  honour 
of  R.  A.  Slaney,  for  twenty-six  years  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment for  Shrewsbury.  ... 

"Take  a  sip  of  this,"  he  ordered. 

She  drank  obediently  and  thanked  him  with  her  eyes. 

"I'm  better.  The  first  time  we  met  I  was  fainting  in  the 
train.  Before  I  knew  you.  .  .  .  And  I  loved  you  and 
dreamed  of  your  love  for  me.  I  used  to  hear  your  voice. 
.  .  .  No  one  will  ever  look  after  me  as  you've  done ;  no  one 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  285 

will    ever    understand    or    love    or    make    allowances    for 


me 

As  he  restored  the  flask  to  his  pocket,  Eric  saw  that  the 
time  was  within  a  few  minutes  of  midnight;  in  less  than 
twenty- four  hours  he  would  be  at  Liverpool;  in  less  than 
twenty-four  minutes  he  would  have  lost  the  thing  that  was 
dearest  to  him  in  life. 

"Barbara,  you've  seen  Jack,"  he  said.  "He  had  his 
chance;  he  neglected  it.  There's  the  answer  we've  been 
waiting  for  all  these  weary  months.  I  don't  want  to  worry 
you  when  you're  ill,  but  I  can't  charge  my  own  conscience 
with  the  knowledge  that  I've  left  undone  anything  which 
will  stop  the  present  tragedy." 

Though  she  opened  her  eyes  slowly,  there  was  now  no 
trace  of  faintness  or  exhaustion. 

"He  never  had  a  chance!  Eric,  if  you'll  think  for  one 
moment — in  a  crowded  theatre,  with  people  listening  all 
round " 

"He  could  have  written  the  moment  he  left  Germany.  He 
could  have  written  or  seen  you  any  time  since  that  night. 
On  the  night  itself  he  could  have  asked  you  to  let  him 
come  and  see  you.  He  didn't  raise  a  finger !  And  you  still 
hypnotize  yourself  with  one  excuse  after  another — How 
much  longer  are  you  going  on  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Eric."  She  covered  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  rose  to  her  feet.  "I'm  bound  in  honour, 
as  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times.  When  I  know  defi- 
nitely  " 

"Anything  you  know  will  have  to  be  known  to-night." 

"But  if  you  found  a  cable  waiting  for  you  in  New 
York " 

"It  would  tell  me  what  I  know  already — plus  the  fact 
that  your  vanity  had  been  convinced  in  spite  of  itself." 

"I  prefer  'honour'  to  'vanity.'  " 

"Hadn't  we  better  leave  'honour'  out  of  the  discussion?" 


286    THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  her  mouth  tightly  shut; 
then,  declining  his  arm,  she  began  walking  slowly  eastward. 
Opposite  Bath  House  Eric  hailed  an  empty  taxi  and  told 
the  driver  to  take  them  to  Berkeley  Square. 

"You  wouldn't  Hke  me  to  drop  you  in  Ryder  Street?" 
Barbara  asked. 

"Not  even  to  gratify  your  love  of  artistic  finish." 

"How  you  hate  me!"  she  whispered  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath. 

"No,  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever ;  I  need  you  more  than 
ever.  Whatever  happens  to  you,  I  wish  you  all  happiness. 
You  once  undertook  my  education,  but  I  can  tell  you  that 
you'll  never  find  the  happiness  I'm  wishing  you  till  you  learn 
to  sink  yourself  and  think  of  other  people." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  like  a  startled  animal,  then  looked 
away. 

"Haven't  I  sunk  myself,  haven't  I  thought  of  Jack  before 
any  one  else  for  two  and  a  half  years?"  she  whispered. 

"No,  you've  thought  solely  of  yourself — with  Jack  as  a 
limelight.  At  this  moment  you're  thinking  less  of  Jack  or 
me  than  of  your  amour  propre." 

"You  must  be  thankful  to  be  rid  of  me  after  the  way  I've 
sacrificed  you  to  my  vanity." 

"You'll  outgrow  your  vanity." 

"Perhaps  Jack  still  wants  me  in  spite  of  the  way  I've  be- 
haved to  him." 

"Perhaps  so.    I  shan't  be  here  to  see." 

The  taxi  turned  into  Berkeley  Street,  and  Eric  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Barbara,"  he  said. 

"Won't  you  come  in  for  a  moment?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Eric,  you  must!  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to 
you  !    Eric,  I  heg  you  to  come  in." 

He  opened  the  door  without  answering  and  stood  on  the 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BARBARA  NEAVE  287 

kerb,  ready  to  help  her  out.  She  delayed  so  long  that  the 
driver  turned  curiously  round. 

"Eric,  please !"  she  entreated. 

"Have  you  your  latch-key?" 

She  gave  a  choking  sob,  as  she  mounted  the  steps,  and 
Eric  set  his  teeth ;  suddenly  losing  control,  she  gripped  him 
by  the  arm. 

"Eric,  you're  not  going  to-morrow !" 

"Indeed  I  am." 

"When?" 

"That's  immaterial.     Good-bye." 

He  returned  to  the  taxi  and  pressed  himself  into  the  cor- 
ner, staring  ahead  so  that  he  should  not  see  the  familiar 
ermine  coat  on  the  door-step.  Barbara  fumbled  blindly  M^ith 
the  lock  and  spun  round,  as  the  taxi  began  slowly  to  turn. 
As  the  driver  changed  speed,  she  dropped  her  key  and  ran 
twenty  yards  down  the  square,  crying  "Eric!";  but  the 
grinding  of  the  gears  drowned  her  voice. 

The  tail-light  dwindled  to  a  ruby  pin-point  and  van- 
ished. .  .  . 

The  telephone-bell  was  ringing,  as  Eric  entered  his  flat. 
He  unhooked  the  receiver  and  tossed  it  on  to  his  bed;  but 
after  a  moment's  silence  there  broke  out  a  persistent  metal- 
lic buzzing,  while  the  bells  in  the  other  rooms  rang  with  all 
their  accustomed  clarity.  He  began  to  undress;  but  the 
merciless  noise  racked  his  nerves.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  tie  a  handkerchief  round  the  clapper  of  the 
bell.  .  .  . 

Then  he  threw  himself  in  shirt  and  trousers  on  the  bed 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


"A  man  does  not  continue  drinking  corked  champagne. 
With  women,  his  palate  is  less  critical." — From  the  Diary 
of  Eric  Lane. 


THE   END 


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